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
Then we are stuck with them,
as I am stuck with these.