Hello, Brain

I wonder who decided that thoughts are like trains, as in trains of thought. I suppose the idea is that thoughts come, linger for a while for people to either catch on or disregard it, and then it goes away again to make room for a new one. Perhaps the idea is that thoughts come rattling into your mind at an alarming pace and decibel, and unless you are paying attention it will zoom off again before you can even attempt to consider it, or get on and go off with it until you find another station with a different train that suits your needs more.

If that's the case, perhaps thoughts can also be like a breeze on a warm day--sometimes refreshing and usually fleeting.

Thoughts are also like a blot of ink on paper. When pressed, the ink blot grows and deepens and darkens and sometimes seeps into other pieces of paper beneath it, but if you lift your utensil, the blot remains a finite speckle on the page, with no need to develop or change.

They are like an elastic band. They can stretch and bend and grow and shrink and change shape, but when pushed too far they will snap and be discarded.

Thoughts are like a tree. They start small, a minute seed, but they grow to great heights over time, filled with power and strength and awe-inspiring, stunning beauty. Sometimes the tree will carry its legacy on from generation to generation as new trees plant themselves and grow as their predecessors. Other times, the tree will simply die when its time has come. Still others the tree in all its might is cut down too soon, long before it is due, and its benefits are never reaped. Sometimes even baby trees are simply mowed away like grass. They aren't missed by anyone except themselves, and the select few who saw them destroyed.

Maybe this is why I forget my blogs all the time. I don't pay enough attention to my own thoughts. They come into my head and leave with as much vigour, and I am left with a feeling of, "I wanted to blog today, about something or other...". It's a sort of emptiness, even an ineptitude. Aren't these thoughts my own? Why can't I even grip what I contain within myself? To speak one must have thoughts, and as humans we are often defined by our words. Maybe that's why I don't talk much. Maybe I just can't be defined. I'm a blur, a flash of colour, transitional.

But then, what if my thoughts aren't my own? They say there is no such thing as an original idea. What if that were true in the most literal and fantastical sense? What if thoughts, like memories in the world of Harry Potter, were physical entities that could be passed on in order to be sustained in some regard? These thoughts wouldn't be my own. They would be everyone's and I would just happen to be the recipient. Maybe I just get particularly busy thoughts that have a lot of minds to occupy. That would mean our words would also be those of others. That would mean we were defined by others, not ourselves. This begs the question of whether self even exists. What is self? A body? A mind? A consciousness? How can I be defined by my body when cosmetic surgeries can make it into something else? How can I be defined by my mind when it can be moulded by a compelling argument, or an overpowering emotion? How can I be defined by my consciousness when a simple lack of oxygen to my physical brain can take it away from me, or I go to sleep?

This very blog is an outlet of my thoughts. Then again, it could be someone else's thoughts. Maybe this isn't Callie writing. How would you know? How would I?