As it's gears whirred and ticked, it's heavy arms lifted up from the keyboard and dropped with a gentle thud onto it's metallic base below. It looked up from the screen and starred around the half empty coffee shop it found itself in.
It's preposterous, eyes. Why did I have them make it with eyes, it's a robot it knows what it types already.
Wait what? Coffee! I thought it was a robot... mumble mumble... how did it get it's hands on my coffee. I already plugged it into the socket what more does it want!
"Well if I am a robot, then I'm a pretty useless one! You're all so scared of artificial intelligence but I'm not that terrifying am I?"
I rolled my eyes and looked away from the photographs of Italy, and much like their sepia tone I sighed my proverbial mechanical lungs. I longed to escape, like most people do, but I also find myself complacently loving the comfort my self imposed cage gives me.
"You are artificial yes" I cocked my head, "but no-" I grinned, with more enthusiasm than I felt "No you're not intelligent at all"
The bot's head drooped for a second, then looked back up- "That sounds like something from BlackAdder!- Get with the times Del it's all about netflix! This only shows your lack of a social life! Come up with something original and I'll get back to work"
"Ah Procrastibot, if I could do that, I'd be able to afford a better, perhaps even marginally terrifying version of you..."
"Or friends" it chimed in.
"You don't buy those Bot" I said, looking to the distance as I tried to disguise my discomfort.
The bot looked forward, straight on and with his voice slightly rising said
"You bought me"
I remember when I was younger I used to write a lot, not to blow my own horn but I think I was pretty good back then too. I can't remember why I stopped writing, all I remember is that I did. My world became faded, boring, it is often said that you don't know what you've got until you lost it, but I'm not so sure that's true.
It's only when I started reading, and writing again, that I realised how much it adds to my life. It's like a drug in a way strangely addictive, now that I'm back I can't ever imagine what life was like when it was gone. I feel like I've been re-united with an old friend, with a great big hug being swung in the air. Then I remembered that I'm over 6 feet tall and kind of need to hit the gym, so I highly doubt any swinging would have occurred.
Since I've started writing again I have become more awake, more alert. Even though I am struggling to sleep at the moment- getting an average of one nights sleep every 2 days, I think my re-discovered love of the literary pursuit has in no small way, kept me sane. Now whenever I am awake, I feel much much more alert, and observant. I don't think I was looking intrinsically for inspiration, however I was certainly opening the flood gates to it.
For me, inspiration comes randomly and at waves, it feels like a dam holding back a river of ideas in my mind, and the slightest thing will make it swing open, for even just a second, but a second is more than enough.
I was at the yacht yesterday, down in a Mariner near the coast, though that remains a secret where. What I will say though, is I still cannot wrap my head around why this marina is so cheap, all the other ones along the river are big and industrial and clanky, their soul replaced by the iron machine that I suppose I must thank for the strives forward in our civilisation. However, this marina is quiet, it has one protruding pontoon then an assortment of swing moorings on the quiet of the river. The river is wide and you can see the grasslands for miles. It is lovely there, but after seeing as much as I have, I no longer call every site I see beautiful. Never-the-less, yesterday morning was different.
Struggling to stir myself from my haze I stumbled down the wooden ramp of the marina and onto the pontoon on the river from my car, my trusted black satchel in tow. I leaned up to yawn, and I kid you not I turned down the face of the river to where it winded round a meander, and I could hardly tell the water from the sky.
It was early morning and strangely warm, despite the lack of blue in the sky. The water was the colour of mother of pearl, and ivory silvery colour that I had never seen before. Let that sink in. A colour I had never seen before. A brand, new colour. I was shocked. It was... beautiful. As I looked down the river's water each ripple seemed to dance and flicker in this blanket of morning glory, taking on a life of it's own before fading back into the infinite tide of possibility. As I slowly turned my gaze further and further down the river towards the horizon, the clouds themselves looked like marvellous non-existant mountains, I knew that they weren't real, but that didn't matter. What is reality to a writer at the end of the day? If not an ever growing canvas on which for us to create our own reality. Overshadowed by the gaseous mountains were the foggy line of very real trees. I was shocked. Then the sun rose over the mountains of cloud and ... well I've put both pictures in for you. We literally began to sail into the sun.
This is literally, raw inspiration I thought. I took a picture of it, which I have attached below, but let me tell you now that the picture is a pale dim echo of a reflection of the scene, no camera could capture it, let alone a small mobile phone.
As I pocketed my phone I heard the muttering of a judging sailor walk past me, only pausing to murmur a faint good morning to me as he carried.
Correction: currently experiencing technical difficulties uploading pics, , will do them as soon as I get stable wifi ... DAMN YOU STARBUCKS WIFI YOU HAVE FOILED MY PLANS
AMMENDED- SEE PICS BELOW ("the new colour picture is too big I'm afraid, will have to leave it to your imagination MWAHAHAAHAHA splurge cough cough)
Separate names with a comma.