Writing rubbish

I’ve just spent the entire day writing about dehumidifiers for a company that allows people to find what they’re looking for on the Internet.

This is not a bad thing, the web allows  all of us access to information that we would otherwise have to search for by using the Yellow Pages.

The down side is that once I start engaging the old mental gears I can’t seem to find an off  switch.

I keep coming up with the beginnings of novels that at the age of 40 I should be writing, not just thinking about.

Take this for example.

“Even down here you could smell the hiss of the ozone, the hot tin smell of the lightening that guided the merchants to the market of broken dreams.

“They knelt at their benches tallying up the value of human depravity; the gravity of a child’s cry, the want of a woman, a leper’s tears and I, with the piss and vinegar of a junkyard dog lurked in the shadows with my baggage, waiting.”

“Gravity pulls us all to a market of some kind. This one had merchants that were willing to trade in the most important of all commodities, life.”

“I had what they all wanted and I was ready to barter.”

Rubbish isn’t it, but I keep thinking that there’s something there.

We all go through life thinking that we know where we are and what we want to be, but sooner or later we’re confronted with who we really are. The trick I think is to not stop dreaming. Somewhere in the universe there’s a market for dreams and we’ve all got the currency. The directions aren’t on any GPS device but the destination is set on our mental compass. Keep searching.

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