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Description
I have something of a plan. Not of my future, not every detail pinned down on a tight schedule. No. I have an idea more so than anything. And most of my plan has come from dreams I've been having over the last few weeks. In twenty years, I can only guess where I'll be. But, in my mind when I think of my future, I see this:
I see a dark house. Not too many rooms, but just enough. Call me greedy but I want an office in this house. In this office, it'll be littered with papers strewn all across the hard wood floors. The dark paneled desk covered in open notebooks, volumes of text, a dictionary, a fountain pen or twelve. Multiple number two pencils. On the desk, next to all these papers, taking up a tiny square on the corner will be a lamp. This lamp is the only thing ever lighting the room. Whenever I have this dream, nothing else is on. Only that lamp.
There is never a chair. Whenever I try and picture a chair, there never is one. It doesn't fit into the picture. And yet, when I see myself in this room, I'm either standing at the window or sitting at the desk. But I see no chair!
I see volumes of French philosophy, leather bound books filled with the insight of such thinkers as Voltaire, Montesquieu, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and Karl Marx. The walls lined with that of Auguste Comte and Sigmund Freud.
I see a dog, at least one if not two. I see a woman. A woman willing to deal with my writing fits of locking my self into my lair for days on end so I can do nothing but write.
But, I see these fits of writing happening more and more frequently. Call it depression, call it a writers' angst. But, I presume they will in fact happen.
And that scares the shit out of me.