I can’t imagine a lone thought, colourless, silent, chewing on itself in a vacuum. Or even a tangled skein of convoluted ruminations, unravelling in straight lines, slowly, towards a decision, like a parade of unsmiling soldiers, the mute grey of the a water-washed monsoon morning. When I think, Marcus, there are voices and music and every hue you can ever imagine, scene upon scene flashing in high definition, plots, detours and implausible logic, a cacophony, an opera, the light, animated, dancing through rainbows or casting shadows on an open brick wall to the lament of a million violins.
Real life must find it very hard to keep up.
Disappoints me every day! And yet the droning comfort of monotony can so easily be mistaken for happiness.
Are the cymbal clashing, skirt whirling decisions better than the ones that emerge sans drama from monochrome cogitation?
No. If it needs that much thinking, it can’t be a very good decision either way, can it?
And when the curtain falls?
But it never ends, does it, Marcus? It never ends.
first there were fireflies
then a moon, then stars,
the darker it got, the more they glowed