The mind is such a vast concept, especially as I've been told I have the mind of Jesus. Well not just me. A whole bunch of us have it and the taste of bread and wine fires thoughts of forgiveness and seventy times seven chances.
I'm starting with what I can see and hear and touch, because input is where we begin to interpret and convince ourselves that we understand. It's unlikely we fully do.
The air is cool because it's after midnight and the buzz of the hardware is muffled by the wind. I'm not in bed. Why not? I know so much better, but make the same dull mistakes over and over. Like a story about rip-off merchants on Today Tonight. Or maybe it's A Current Affair? You're right. It barely matters.
The world is full of writers and they type at odd hours and they tweet about it later, so you'll go and read their stuff. Or buy their books, and at least that'll keep them in coffee for their coffee machines, or perhaps bread for their toasters and milk for supper and the cat. Because Don was right. (He usually is. In his blunt and laughless way.) What the world needs is another Christian book.
So I'll soothe myself by calling this listening to the world. Listening, in order to hear and understand. Perhaps. Looking and observing. It's not easy to really see what's happening. Context matters, and perspective, and the kind of font you use, to say what you think is most important to get across. Not much really poetic or profound gets said in Comic Sans. I've noticed that it's a struggle to touch profundity with words at all. It's too much about an ache in my chest. Or perhaps a slow letting out of breath.
Predictably, I'll try. This is a blog, after all.
I'm trying to write research, too. To put the figures and data I collected, into context and make it scientifically presentable. Perhaps they'll realise how little I know, so I do nothing, betraying the fact. I'm longing to discover that inspiration is not so much about sweat and discipline. More about having unexpectedly discovered brilliance. Perhaps this is three year old petulance and fear of failure. And I don't want to be a perfectionist.
So the air is cool, and it's after midnight. The wind carries oak leaf rustle and an icicle. Part of this is experimental. An attempt to start. To put wishes into action. Disappointed that it's not enough, and knowing that I'll never know when to stop. How could it ever be enough?
I know I have perpetual struggle to put the life in my head into practice.
I'm howling at the moon and it helps me know I'm alive.