Something always seems to be churning around in me. I’m endlessly self-focused and introspective and yet I’m probably not as ashamed of that as I ought to be.
Here are some of the many things I wonder about:
Do other people give themselves time to think?
With TV, cell phones, tweeting, texting, endlessly social networking, when do people think their own thoughts?
And who says introspection is a suckers game? Well, Alex Delaware, that’s who, but he’s a fictional shrink in a fictional book.
If we're constantly bombarded by noise of one kind or another, how much does that noise influence our thought life?
Are we really thinking our own thoughts or are we processing, in our own particular and perhaps peculiar method, through an already warped mindset and worldview?
Is there anything left to invent?
Any there new plots to be written?
Is there such a thing as a new poem? We’re limited to a finite vocabulary; after all, what are the odds that someone somewhere has not already written the poem I so carefully crafted. Perhaps refrigerator poetry is an art form after all.
It's time to quit wondering for a few minutes and read a story someone else has already written.
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