It starts off somewhere in my brain, I cannot say exactly where. Out of nothing it comes alive and consumes my every thought. No matter how I look at it; it is perfect, it is beautiful; it is the best thing that has ever happened to me.
It is a great idea.
I don’t talk to people much, but when I do, I usually spew a lot of small talk that usually amounts to nothing.
This is why I prefer to write my thoughts, to make an argument online in the written word, where I can gather my thoughts, groom them, fine-tune them and project them into the world like a mother does to her child.
I can’t tell you now what kinds of chemicals are released into my brain when I suddenly get a good idea, but I can assure you by speculation that no recreational drug beats it.
I could be in a 15-seater taxi when it strikes me, but I will be smiling among strangers commuting to or from work like a retard.
The thing about these world-changing ideas is that they have lives of their own in my mind. Like a Russian nesting doll, they are minds within a mind, albeit a troubled one.
You see, an idea is born in my mind, and like a newborn infant, it is full of hope, this miracle that comes out of nowhere.Each idea starts off life with a great deal of hope, with a positive mindset in the world that is my mind.
The intricacies and realities, as far as my mind goes are at first kind to the young idea. An idea soon grows to see the world of my mind for what it truly is, cruel and unkind to the wellbeing of the young idea.
Soon enough, doodles on paper from the idea’s youth are stark reminders of what the once highly-spirited idea used to be, a far cry from its current wellbeing.
As with humans, the harsh environment of the world that is my brain soon kills what was a child-like outlook on the world. My mind is cruel to any good idea, and few have survived into advanced age, although barely.
“You’re not good enough,” an idea in my mind is constantly told by Common Sense. “You’re a waste of space,” my Logic shouts. It Is a dark, dark world in there and very few good ideas survive a constant bombardment from Anxiety, by far the cruellest of the bunch.
A once vibrant, but now decimated idea finds refuge from aliens of another world; ideas of another mind. Bound between sheets of dead trees, dark squiggles come alive as an idea jumps from the mind of a long-dead author into mine, hundreds or even thousands of years later.
I am then reminded of the immortality of my ideas and how they can live long and prosper if only I preserve them on dark squiggles between sheets of dead trees.
Maybe, just maybe the beautiful idea can make its way into a less troubled mind, a world better suited to nurse it back to health and nurture it into something amazing.
Preoccupied with the well-being of the idea, I sometimes forget about the ultimate end of the world, the Apocalypse of my mind; my ultimate death.
I love the way words go. The way thoughts can materialize on paper and digital screens, how they can cause a reaction and make another human connect with you, albeit in a positive or a negative manner.
All that matters is that you connect!
Without preservation on dark squiggles between sheets of dead trees, the idea will surely die with me; it will cease to exist within the world, as will I in mine.
This makes me wonder, being the being that I am, being alive and conscious, might I be an idea in the mind of a God? Well, that might make me out to be nothing but a dream, a fleeting thought destined to live and die in a flash.