a rambling poem about thoughts

               thoughts are but wisps

we speak them aloud

to keep them from blowing away

we grasp at them

trying to drag them into reality--

they are reluctant to come--

they'd rather be on their way

we write them down to make them concrete

hard and unmoving

instead of shifting and mutating sneakily

while we observe them

--when we blink again, they are different

than they were before

Despite our efforts to pin them down

they have a mind of their own

a will of their own

that we cannot control

they always seem to slip through our fingers

like water seeping through our cupped hands

no matter how hard we squeeze the flesh together.

Occasionally the thoughts are contained

but they swirl around in their confinement

leading to confusing

as we try to track them down--

but they are moving too fast

accelerating in their circular motion.

Perhaps one's intelligence is a measure

of how well one can keep up--

how well one can keep pace

with the motion of the thoughts

If one could ride a thought,

a brain wavelength,

then would one become essentially non-existent

in space and matter,

as Einstein seems to suggest,

and become inconsequential to the human race?

But this seems hardly plausible

because Einstein--a great mind of the world

had a profound and lasting effect on the human race's understanding

inconsequential by no means. 

Maybe, then, thoughts are in fact temperamental

uncooperative most of the time, 

unless they can be bullied 

into submission and good behavior,

or forced and stuffed

into some funnel of clarity

and agreeable on the rare occasion

when they flow freely through the traffic of our minds,

obeying all the stop lights,

consentingly yielding to our control.

But sometimes they seem to take control of us.

How this is, I do not know--

I cannot imagine how they obtain their power,

secretly storing away little amounts of power siphoned off the host

as the leach drinks the the blood of the human to survive,

or the type of vine feeds off its tree,

eventually to strangle it.

And then, we are thought's tool,

to do with us what it pleases.

Then, we are only a conduit

a means by which the thoughts achieve their reality--

make themselves known to the world.

Unleashed and predatory,

who knows what they will do?

Or perhaps we should do away 

with the tedious trouble-makers,

the bad-behave children of out minds.

Because they are children--

rebellious and wild and stubborn as as savages.

Oh why do we give birth to them when we know

all they will be is trouble?

I suppose sometimes they come unexpectedly 

--without warning.

Then we are stuck with them,

as I am stuck with these.

The End

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