The Absurdity of Copyright

I’ve always loved going to bed. I go to sleep almost instantly, out like a light, as if someone flicked the switch on my consciousness. But what I truly love isn’t just the sleep—it’s the journey. You see, once I drift off, I embark on adventures so vivid and peculiar that even the waking world can’t compete. And sometimes, during these magical dreamscapes, I stumble upon questions. Questions that feel like revelations, probing the mysteries of life and the universe—or sometimes, the mundane, like why I still can’t find matching socks.

One night, my subconscious threw me into the swirling world of copyright—a place both ridiculous and fascinating. Maybe I’d been thinking about those court cases where pop stars sue other pop stars because their songs “sounded a bit similar.” Wasn’t Miley Cyrus’ Flowers in the firing line recently? As I drifted deeper into my dream, I found myself asking:

How many notes even exist?

How many combinations of those notes can we possibly have? Surely there are only so many ways to mix the same old sounds before it all starts to overlap. Are we to sue every person who hums a tune that sounds vaguely like something else? The absurdity escalated, and my dream delivered an even better thought:

What about Aboriginal tribes suing someone for playing the didgeridoo? Imagine it—a young bloke on Bondi Beach breathes into his didge, and suddenly a tribal elder appears, waving a lawsuit for millions because “That’s our note!” Then my dream leapt to Mongolia—throat singers in their flowing robes—would they file for breach of copyright against the bloke next door for gargling while brushing his teeth? Is it theft of sound, or are we just creating noise?

The more I thought about it, the further I drifted into absurdity. What about the guy who plays music on wine glasses filled with water? One single note that happens to match Mozart—lawsuit incoming! And those who tap on zippers, pluck Jew’s harps, or whack a xylophone—surely, someone’s already claimed that sound as theirs.

Then I remembered Thailand, where I often attend cultural events. The music is always the same. Every drumbeat, every gong. If someone copied that sound—if another band played the same melody—who holds the copyright? The musicians? The ancestors? The universe? And does the sound of a cricket chirping in the background count as infringement too?

But my mind didn’t stop there. Oh no, my subconscious led me to photography, my first love. And here it got even stranger. Consider Ansel Adams, the great photographer. He captured majestic mountains, flowing rivers, and trees perfectly framed against the horizon. A masterpiece, no doubt. But here’s the thing: Adams didn’t build those mountains. He didn’t plant the trees or carve the rivers. He simply clicked the shutter and claimed ownership. By that logic, shouldn’t the copyright belong to God? Or nature? Or the wind and water that shaped the valley?

Imagine you’re standing on a clifftop, photographing a blazing sunset—the oranges, reds, and yellows melting into the sea like molten gold. It’s stunning. You snap the picture, feeling proud. But what if your girlfriend, standing next to you with her iPhone, clicks her camera at the exact same moment? The photos will be nearly identical. Whose copyright is it? Yours? Hers? Or maybe the guy who built the sailing ship gliding through the water? After all, without the ship, the photo wouldn’t be the same.

And what about the sunset itself? Who owns that moment? Nature? The Earth’s rotation? Are we stealing when we capture beauty that isn’t ours to make?

This all led me to one final thought in my dream: what if nobody owns anything? No exclusive rights to sounds, notes, images, or ideas. Imagine a world where creativity is free—where songs are sung, photos are taken, and art is made not to be hoarded but shared. Isn’t that the point of self-expression? To add your voice to the harmony of the world?

But then I woke up. And as I sat there, blinking into the morning light, I realised that while copyright laws may try to divide creativity into neat little boxes, life itself doesn’t care. Nature doesn’t send cease-and-desist letters. A songbird doesn’t copyright its tune. The mountains don’t charge for their views.

And so, I think, neither should we. At least, not always.

Copyright belongs to everyone and no one—and maybe that’s the way it’s meant to be.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to take a picture of the sunset and hum a tune I can’t quite place. Let’s hope no one sues me.

“Nature doesn’t send cease-and-desist letters. The mountains don’t charge for their views. Copyright belongs to everyone and no one—and maybe that’s the way it’s meant to be.”