So how do we think then? Well, that’s not exactly what I mean. The whole physicality of the mechanisms of thought don’t interest me any more than a snail’s anatomy . No, what interests me is authenticity, to be clear. Clearly pretentious and a fan of pseudo-intellectualism, you might be thinking, but that’s precisely my point. No it’s not. I don’t know even why I said that. Maybe at a hope for some sort of a sense of leading a literary life. I’m hoping for coincidence to coincide with my idea of the way the world works. But this is an impasse and a diversion and a shortcut all at once. What I want to know, is when we think the thoughts that we believe. Because I know that I edit and cross-examine my beliefs on a momentary basis with blatant disregard for the system they represent: myself. There isn’t some emotional semblance of our sensory perception of touch; there’s no nerve alert to signal the presence of my truest and purest thoughts. I have to pick and choose and quickly grab up all the fleeting images that sidestep into my consciousness, or tie them around my back to prevent them from flying back to the world of where they belong. How do I know? The only things that I know exist and function of a fundamental basis and only provide me with a skeptical error pen to point out the mistakes of all the other worlds that revolve around our Son, and pens make shitty hammers. I can’t stay on one train of thought long enough to really know what a train ride feels like. My life fragments itself into these tiny sub-worlds that exist long enough as my attention can endure the agony of excitement, and with the shattering, I bring into the new earth the shadows of my former belief systems, to work more like a rug than a foundation. A dirty rug for all my other ideas to rest their weary feet upon, while they wait for the storm and tumult to pass, so they can be on their way again. There is a drive in our minds that coincides with our biological clock: we start with the rebellion of a lean-to, and then drift towards the security of a pen; while I get stuck jumping from makeshift-prison to the next. Worst of both worlds. But there’s a kind of beauty in not knowing how the world works, really. You maintain that sort of childish twinkle when you stare at the stars, and people can capture your imagination for what seems an eternity. I don’t see the world through rose-tinted glasses, but rather, a kaleidoscope; all of my former selves pushing my vision one way, and the other facet just as quickly painting the scene green with envy. But how do I know that this is what really goes on in my head? How do I know that this ins’t a midnight delusion that will never return once the sun rises? How do I know that I’m not just creating this fantastical world of chaos and skepticism to diffuse the harsh reality that my life is utterly boring? It seems, bonne mademoiselle , that you’ve caught me there. In a bit of a bind, you might say. Back up against the wall, that sort of thing. But the truth? What little it may mean to a somehow who claims permanent residence of ground which was obtained through only the truest truths, I’m sure, is that life is a matter of will. It is not a path, carved in stone, for our marble of an existence, to roll along without deviation. Nor is it an open field, though. More of a hill after a mudslide: everything but impossible to navigate. But it is the willful mind that decides what is truth, and not through some celestially or holy ordained set of codified rules, nor some innate sense of beauty/truth/good/(insert eternal value here), but rather choice. It has no truth value in itself, it is only after the will has chosen whatever it will that truth even becomes factored. It’s the order of operations, on a metaphysical level. Choice, then truth. Then values, and then identity. Or something like that. It’s been a while sense I’ve been in school. At leastthat kind of school. I like that: choice, then truth.
Bon nuit, mon cherie.