It starts with sadness. It bows to the words of old Master Yoda. Sadness never comes alone. It’s a party pooper like the world has never seen. It’s a disease that brings about a horde of misery and suffering. It beckons in the twilight, creeping out from the dew from leaves that dropped from their supply line and are left helplessly defenceless against the cold wind, slowly decaying and becoming a part of the soil that once nourished them. It reaches out, screaming for attention, when you struggle to get a grasp of reality and let the dreams that once held entire scenes of epic battles in your mind slip away into the nether world which spawned them.
It develops. It engulfs. It consumes. It comes again.
Like that old friend from childhood, who’s always needing attention in some way, it reaches out to touch you, to feel you, to change you. You start spending time together again, and before you know it it’s now your best friend. It’s always there for you, comforting, like an old pair of shoes which you’re never going to wear again, but you can’t get yourself to throw out. You cannot let it go, not when you’re so close, not when it’s so near to you, not when it requires so little of your patience and so much of your time you cannot get yourself to disconnect from it. No, you cannot just break up with it. It’s a mind-consuming and perpetual thought churning machine. It needs you and you need it.
It has you. You’ve become it’s prisoner. You’re no longer yourself, but a shadow of your nature. You once gracefully explored and curiously discovered novelties. You linger a silence which you cannot achieve. You struggle to contain it, but it contains you. The jam has become the jar, and the jar’s existence is in peril without the jam. You feel your jam turning bad, but you dare not let it go, you put too much effort and time into it, you can’t discard it like you cannot discard that old pair of shoes. It’s too much of you now. You know it’s bad, but it’s a part of you, can it be that it actually, is you? Is it now the epicenter of your personality? Is the fragile bond between feelings and person so easily bound into submission by a thought that grew too powerful? Has the creation overcome the creator? Can something you create and caress and grow become so powerful that it overwhelms the very fabric of life that caused its existence?
Can it overthrow the very establishment that allowed it to be? Can it be so powerful that you no longer control it, but rather you become the puppet of your own creation? Is the system of control so flawed that it allows such a tiny speck of dust, easily lost within countless other brethren which didn’t make it to primetime, become as powerful as to walk amongst us, and possibly control others?
How do you set your own control? Where is the line in the desert that you decide not to cross, when you’re the only one who can put it there? If you control all your thoughts and feelings, is it not a thought that controls your thoughts? Is democracy among thoughts a concept that stands it’s ground? Are you at any time in control of anything? Are a million questions left unanswered an answer in themselves? At what point does a creation become original? What creates an original thought? What starts the spark that ignites all the chemicals needed to create something new? Is a creation of something new something different than just an improvement of an existing thought, an upgrade of an idea from information to construction? If a mind is such a fertile ground of various thoughts that go rampant within a boundary so unclearly defined as camping is in online games, how can something ever be convincing enough to make it to the upper layers of the mind, start directing other thoughts and start wreaking havoc on the existing brainwaves that have existed peacefully until that moment?
But it’s not all dungeons and doom. There’s a bright side to everything the mind touches. For the deepest darkness can sometimes spark the brightest light. And that light can ignite the imagination of an entire generation, and that light can shine through time, into eternity, forever bound to inspiring others to strive for more. But forever and eternity do not go hand in hand with humanity. Our purpose is not to live forever, we do not exist timelessly and our creations and ideas are doomed to be lost with our species. Our system will crumble with our sun expanding into a fiery red doom, our galaxy will collide with another galaxy and our existence is due to be forgotten and lost into the vast nothingness of space. But all is not lost, for beauty can be temporary. Creations can sparkle and die like comets lighting up a summer’s night sky, shining a brief moment of beauty and then fading into a beautiful nothingness.
And in this apocalyptic doomsday prophecy of temporary existence and beauty, do our thoughts really matter that much? Is desire a thought so powerful as to transcend this spiral of mortality? Is a spark of chemicals running in our brain as wonderful as our minds want it to think it is? Does anything we can produce in our tiny carbon based brains relevant in the greater scheme of things? Is our creation so precious to the Universe as it is to our sense of self? Are we not just empowering our own skull babies with hopes and ambitions governed by our fears of our own mortality and destruction, and thus creating a false importance in our own little personal world, behind our little glass screens of protection from the sentiment that we in true nature are all just beasts that think highly of ourselves? Plants feel pain, and whales act selflessly and apparently we are the only intelligent species on this rock hurling through space following a small sized star on a voyage of unknown reasons?