Echo Through Time

Nothing is original anymore. The words I write down have all been used before, and not a single thing I say comes from inside my own brain. I take little snippets from a vast library, I can cut and paste from every other page, but whatever comes from me was laid down before for everyone to see. It doesn’t matter what you steal, if you stole a writing from parchment from a thousand years ago or a line from a book just a few weeks old, it’s all been done before, and it will go down like every other book, a little bit of history, a story that could change a life, a novel that could cause mass chaos, or just a poem that can rattle the world. Whatever you write, if you ever choose to walk down that road, then just remember this little saying, and even though you know it’s true there are still so many things you can do. I myself has stolen before, this paper you read has probably been written before, but I’ve never seen a page, I’ve never highlighted or marked what I intend to take, I just pull things from my mind and the letters take on shape. You can do it too, you can write novels and poems, songs and stories of butterflies and rainbows or something just plain gory. I write like a monkey, I jumble everything up, some parts can be a song if you can keep up while the others act like poems laid between veiled lines and In between them lies a subtle rhyme, like the one I just told you but you wouldn’t catch it lest I did, you wouldn’t know it if it hit you without my knowledge firsthand. But that’s another story, for another place another time, a setting if one at all, maybe I’ll just write it on the wall. There I go again, a thief for the lyrics and a sticky-fingered writer who takes what he pleases. The reason I write is to convey a message, though the message I haven’t figured out. One day I’ll sit down and write it all out, it’ll be a book of epic proportions, be taught in schools and maybe some people will take what I say and make a movie out of it, let it be a monster in the culture of whatever period will have it. Until I get it set I’ll write in random ways, I’ll write on random days, and write like I’m in a daze. Even for me there are so many things to say, just 16 and a wheel of fortune in my head, an odyssey crying for release, a poem begging to be free, and stories shouting to be beyond my reach for all to see. Until they can get it straight they’ll stay in my head, and ones like these will come out to play, just drop a line and walk away, talk a bit at the end of the day. Think about it now, think about your history. Try and comprehend the time we’ve been here, time we’ve spent on this planet, billions of years old, and I may live to be one hundred, not even a fraction of a second in comparison, who really cares what I have to say? Someone will someday, someone will sit where you are right now and take a line I say, a phrase I use and repeat it to, my influence will spread across the globe, people will bow before me and beg me to lead, I’ll conquer the world with an iron fist and lead us to space to take on mars and everything beyond. Then one day I’ll die, I’ll cease to be a face, my memory all that’s left, my body beginning to decay, then who will wonder what I’ve done these days, a boy in his room with a mind full of wonder, a soul full of scorn for feeling betrayed, and still that too is just one phase in a long line to come, of feelings in all but just one time betrayed out of hundreds to be, I won’t let it ruin me. I’ll sit here and write, bring matters to light, fill up the night with what I want, tell others to do the same. Everyone will know what we have to say, the people of my generation, kids no longer we’ll stand on our own, we’ll have our philosophic ways, the intellectuals once again holding sway and hope that one day the stupidity decays, in an Idiots Array we’ll find our salvation, look to the skies for the Ace of Spades, gamble everything away just to spread what we have to say. And we’ll stand up like mountains, immovable, never giving away, our voices will echo and reach out beyond present days, our minds will falter, yes they will sway, but we will stand strong and yes, even you, will hear what I have to say. You'll listen so closely you can't see my face, my voice will hold sway and you'll forget my name, that's not what matters only my beliefs, my remnants and relics that I write every day, one day they'll surface and seize the days I wasted away. When you finally finish, take a step back and comprehend what you've learned, recollect yourself and look at your face, look in the mirror every single day, live with a purpose and write with a passion, sing a with a voice or don't even try, act like a character or get out of the way, make yourself known and echo through time, leave something behind to make yourself worthy because in the scope of your life you don't have much time, just a fraction of a second to leave something behind