The Obscure

So it's late at night (or early in the morning) and I am being kept awake once again. I am imprisoned in my consciousness, of course, by my love of grumpy auto-mechanics and their grease-stained cozy overalls. It is not an easy love to be stifled, unfortunately, and I find myself going nightly to my automobile and performing acts of easily repairable subterfuge upon it, warranting repeated visits to the average, every day, nine-to-five schlub of my affection.

I am a man of many strange and unusual addictions. Foremost among them is an addiction to the written word. Reading, collecting, comprehending, yes, I am dependant on all these; but there is a larger habit among them. I am addicted to putting words together, to trying to turn the thoughts I think into something more tangible. Isn't it fascinating? Language and thought, every little idea that roams around in your mind can be harnessed and shoved onto a page, and it (if preserved) it will stay there for a practical eternity. Immortalization of your thoughts. It's a powerful and completely obvious thing, but it is mind-blowing for me right now.
What if, say, someone decided to catalogue every single thought they had onto pages? Imagine, for a moment, that this person invented a way for that to actually be possible (which would be difficult, to say the least), then the person's mind would live on, long after "He" (or "She" *PC*) was physically gone. Then the person would live on not only in name, but in Idea. Even the greatest heroes of the past did not do that.
Imagine the advances that could be made if such a thing were possible! If a carbon copy of the minds of every human being were made before their deaths, all the genius and intelligence of today could be picked up right where it was left off, tomorrow.
Just like "The Giver". I think. I never actually read that book, so I am not sure it is the one I am talking about.

Man. I am wacked out of my gourd. Perked out, y'know? Also, I am doing laundry.
AGH! I cannot think!
Why do I even bother writing this God Damn Son-of-a-bitch?

Many liars whisper words, and all I hear is shouting.
The White King's law is scratched in glass, it's only there for flouting.
And nearby a vile shadow man, whose lips are curled in scorn,
Takes our words, and sets a flame to the pages that he's torn.

And all the while, laughing, mocking
A group of girls comes wildly flocking
All wearing matching knee-high stockings
To watch the dead clock, ticking, tocking;
They shall find Hell a pretty prison.

The carpet was littered with bones last night,
They were taken in the morning flight.
And then the children all ran away,
To gather more bones for today.