There are moments that overtake me; although they are few and far between, where I must write.

The flow of words seem to seamlessly weave themselves together on a page with little effort from myself. A simple keystroke creates such beautiful combinations of thoughts.
Philosophy does this to me. I am not a poet nor an artist nor a dreamer. I see the world through the lens of a intellectual. However, an intellectual who is hardly up to par.

The idea that an idea could be more than a mere fleeting thought. A whisper in the darkness of the universe, hoping that what we perceive is really only part of what we can know. That absolutes are only defined by our reality which, in turn, is only defined by our words. The language, the limitation, in our lives is also the very key to expand our universe. These blank pages are canvases for the non-artist type to paint their ideal universe or to correct a malformed picture.

The pen is my paintbrush.
I write to you my view of the canvas set in front of me. The mood strikes me through anguish, depression, elation, or numbness. The picture is honest and deep. I have been cornered and told too deep at times. Too much for too many echoes in my ears lately when I gently rest my fingers on the keys.

Such joy at knowing I can impart something to someone a world away! Those beautiful keystrokes reaching across time and space to place a thought every so daintily in front of you.

There it sits. Fragile and breakable. A criticism would tear it apart but only to have it rebuilt stronger. The beauty of philosophy.

The reader may tear it limb from limb. Take each piece and bury it far from the others. Only to find that after a short time those pieces have grown into a newly formed version of the first. Popularity and attention only benefit its existence and, although many fall from the pedestal of popularity, exist in the minds of those who read.

The disagreement and the critiques that follow only serve to liven the thing.

I was told today a saying that holds true to many things in life. The thing that you feed grows and the thing that you starve dies.

The attention, positive or negative, to the thing will grow it into something new. Either a prison or a tower. It is a possibility that it creates both.

The 'it' may be any idea. It may be the desire of a child or the planning of a matured adult. Mine are the ramblings of a 20 something year old with too much on her mind.
My beautiful, simple, limited ideas. Confined by my reality and the words that surround it. The sum of experience coupled with my revelation.

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    What is this?

    A conglomeration of thoughts at any given moment.