For months i've been trying to write this book, any book, it seems like its been years. I'm always thinking, observing, and staring off in silence; it makes me feel alone yet so close to everything around me at the same time. It's like I jump into my mind and flip through page after page of nothingness until I come up with something that fits my surroundings. All my thoughts feel jumbled as if they aren't mine or don't belong where I have them, but I know they belong there because they're my thoughts. . . aren't they? If they're not mine I have no idea who they belong to. I've thought like this for as long as I can remember and I remember everything, I always have it's just part of who I am, even if I could change it I don't think I would.
What is a thought? Why do we think? I just realized how wierd it is to think about thinking or have thoughts of a thought. Sometimes I think about why I think the way I do, it just me right back to the same question; "why do I think at all" or "why does anyone think." It's almost as if my train of thought is on a figure eight track; until it's derailed and I climb from the rubble dragging my remaining thoughts behind me on a chain attached to my soul. I feel chained to my thoughts' all of them, even the meaningless ones that i've only thought once.Maybe our thoughts are directly linked to our soul by some hidden force. That would explain why our thoughts reflect our feelings or do we think before we feel? Do we really feel or do we just think we feel the way we do? Should I just stop thinking all together? . . . I'll think about it . . .
