the shape of thought
Often I think about the way we treat each other. It is a sin to be too lazy, it is a sin to try to hard. It is a virtue to be lazy and find success, it is a virtue to work hard and find failure.
Often I wonder how else could we have ended up? What other choice was there than deeply ill creatures?
Often I reflect on mental illness. The way that the acceptance of the sick only came as we found ourselves catching.
Often I imagine the shape of thought. Shape feels like a wholly necessary abstraction. It does not make meaningful sense to me to talk about a thought as one discrete thing. When I say a shape, I do not mean "oh, this happy thought of mine was round!" or "this cruel desire of mine was a triangle..." No. I mean a living, breathing lamina. I cannot imagine a thought as anything less than a mountain of silk on the surface of Jupiter. It must be writhing, screaming, tesselating patterns that have never been seen before and never will be seen again. It must be chaotic and it must be unclear where the fabric begins and where the air around it ends. There are a trillion folds in a single thought. Like the most beautiful origami you could ever conceive. And then it is gone-- ripped in half by the fly which landed on your arm.
How fragile are we, a quilt of so many fragile thoughts?
Often I find myself brooding on the number of thoughts I have left in my life. There is a number, you know.
no place, no moral, no concept, no quarrel, no crime, no thing will keep its shape forever.
What has shaped you?
