Thought Fullness

Molehills of abstraction surround me, piles of chunks of metaphysical dirt grow beside me as I furiously tunnel to find the core of whatever it is that we call reality. Knowledge is a distillation, a reduction on our own terms, and in the process of absorption we stain the purity and message of the originator. Whether it be the understanding of a daffodil's ascent or the rhetoric of a right-wing post-liberal idealist, our interpretations are filtered through a lens, so far from the source that they lose their essence in compression. Like a magnifying glass we focus this beam of no-how on the puny dry leaves of our intellect and small forest fires ignite in our minds, tearing through friendships and devouring community. I stare at the ceiling. It's been either three minutes or four days, I have found it difficult to tell recently. When I shut my eyes I imagine I am staring at the sun, looking into a light bulb burning with tightly focused white fire. And when I open my eyes I have the afterglow of this imaginary image dancing before my eyes, a retina burn from a fictitious flame. Make of that what you will.