Without the iconoclastic, skeptical systems perspective of philosophical thinking we toil willingly yet meaninglessly in a morass of directionless doing.
Thoughts in my mind: data points on a scattergram.
Today I don’t want to sit on the thoughtfully placed benches. I don’t want to see the sweeping vistas presented to me.
I don’t want to meander inside the core where everything is fastidiously, worrisomely groomed.
Today I want to sit on a low crumbling wall behind a building. I want to watch insects and birds moving purposefully among a tangle of wild blackberries.
I want to walk out to the rough edges where things are messily, reassuringly real.
Rain outside my window: love of things that grow.
Left to my own devices for even a short time the ideas stream in and the story becomes real again. So real I can sense it. So real I can feel it. So real I am part of it. So real that the words flow out like quicksilver.
Alone right now,
Want to be with others,
Until I’m with them.
I hover in the liminal,
Waiting to live.
I used to be able to write thoughts and even stories with minimal wastage. The concepts in my mind flowed smoothly into words. Now I struggle.
Am I out of practice? I know that I am. I hope that’s what the problem is. I can fix that.