Driving through that little stretch of road which separates suburbia from the urban lands, where the too-bright lights of the gas station cast a shining brilliance into the evil recesses of the night in an attempt to make you feel safe, but somehow end up making you feel all the more cagey and paranoid about your artificially-lit surroundings, I catch a glimpse of a girl getting into a dark car. She looks deliriously happy, as if the troubles of the world were disproportioned somewhere and she came out on the lucky side of life, carefree and beautiful. Dressed like a gypsy and laughing like a lunatic, she takes the hand that reaches out from the car and delicately eases herself into its confines. Where she goes and what the occupants of the car have in plan are unknown to me. Imagination runs wild, but I can't shake the feeling that truth is infinitely greater.

     I'm struck by the realization that what these iridescent beings do tonight, and probably for the rest of their lives, won't be known to anyone besides the individuals and others involved. It's a pity. The amazing journeys they must go on, the truths they must discover, will only exist in their minds hereafter.

     I think everyone should have a writer constantly following them, penning every amazing second of their life. Think of all the people you pass everyday--seemingly uninteresting people with dull lives--and think of what untouched humanity lies there, waiting only to be exposed by a perceptive creature with a knack for literary manifestations. I think the real reason behind this wishing is that I want to be this person, I want to experience everyone's pain and happiness and then I want to give it immortality upon paper (or screen, as the case may be). It's somewhat selfish, but I do want to share it with others so they can feel what it's like to be someone else.

     There are those people you meet that are so indefinate and unique you can't really do them justice in words. In most cases, you over-analyze aspects of their character which really don't make up that person--it simply makes that person for you. Maybe everyone shouldn't have a writer, but should be a writer, chronicling all the events in their lifetime. We could cross-reference these stories and see that the people we assume to be bit players in this world have their own story, as deep and touching as anyone else, and we could see how everone relates to each other and what truly motivates a person. It would be the most complete literary, psychological, and social study of humanity ever conducting. And when you think you had learned all there was to know, a new writer emerges, with his own story, and the stories connected to it, and you are drawn deeper into their world of all-too-realistic imagery.

     But somethings are real to us because they contain such mystery and forcing them to explain themselves might disprove their tangibility. So I let the girl get in the car and take with her all the thoughts, fears, emotions, and other things unattainable by words to merge into the eternal rhythm of humanity, downtown and everywhere else.

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