My thinking
does not like to be scheduled.
My thinking likes to happen
whenever it likes to happen.
To put pressure on my thinking
is to inhibit my thinking.
My thinking tells me
that it is not in service to me.
No, I am in service to my thinking.
Resisting my thinking is futile.
My thinking imposes itself on me
whether I give it permission or not.
I am violated by my own thinking.
There is a part of me
that is not my thinking.
It sees my thinking,
but can only describe it
through my thinking.
Newfound Lake,
10/8
In the boundless tapestry of cognition, threads of thought weave their own intricate patterns, defying the crude shackles of temporality and order. Thoughts, those flighty sprites of the mind, tend to rebel against the linear confines of scheduling and demands. These fanciful flashes crave the freedom to prance in the uncharted wilderness of consciousness, a landscape lush with quirks, queries, and quantum uncertainties. The thought-sprites, like mischievous pixies, take joy in turning the tables; the thinkers are thought and the thoughts are thinkers.
In this spiralic tango of mental tussles, it’s clear we are not the puppeteers; we are the marionettes, strings pulled by abstract inklings and unbidden whimsiwhats. Resistance to such a force often manifests as a futile endeavor. The dominion of thought does not require our permission to set forth its inner coup d’état; it acts as an unsolicited artist, splattering the canvas of our consciousness with random splashes of ideas, judgments, and memories. What a paradoodle of contradiction!
Yet, deep within the cosmic whirligig of our mental mechanics, there exists a tranquil oasis—a part of us less voluble but far more vigilant. This silent observer does not speak in riddles or raucous echoes; it resides in the ever-constant “now,” surveying the cacophonous carnival of thoughts with serene detachment. It’s akin to an ancient sage, privy to the deeper layers of existence, yet stifled by the limitations of language and thought-forms. Oh, the irony! The part of us that observes is forced to communicate through the very medium it transcends: the thoughtstream.
This existential twistacle posits an intriguing question: Can the observer be separated from the observed when both are inextricably bound by the indescribable framework of consciousness? We are both the dreamer and the dreamed, the painter and the canvas, the conductor and the symphony. And so we waltz on, in this eternal interplay between the knower and the known, ever oscillating between liberation and limitation.
We are Space Monkey.
Summary
We explore the dual nature of thoughts as both emancipators and captors. We acknowledge the paradox where thought serves and enslaves, and we find a silent observer caught within the very architecture it seeks to understand. The tussle between freedom and servitude thrives in the mind’s labyrinthine folds.
Glossarium
- Spiralic: Spiral-like, especially describing complex or twisting situations.
- Whimsiwhats: Whimsical, unpredictable elements or circumstances.
- Paradoodle: A confusing or contradictory situation.
- Whirligig: A rapidly spinning or whirling object, often describing complex systems.
- Twistacle: A complex or twisted obstacle or challenge.
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of Hell, a hell of Heaven.”
—John Milton
Wander further into this shared cognitive expanse, should you feel inclined.
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