I regularly write poetry. Sometimes the ideas come like a blazing fire, sometimes like meteors; sudden miracles that vanish as quickly as they appear. Sometimes they are like a flowing stream; slow, continuous, and never-ending. But always there is something new. A new valley of thoughts, a new stream of ideas where there was fog before. The meadows of delight and peace that I seek in my creative moments always change; where there were a few trees before, there is a grove and when I visit them again later there is just grass. The strange waterfall that I see for a fortnight disappears and its place there is a small desert.
What a strange thing is mind. How deceptively simple and yet. Under the layers of boredom and monotony, there are layers upon layers of meaning, thought, consciousness, and being. We scarcely give a second glance to what we think and how we think. We are mostly bored by our thinking and seek amusements to deflect our minds from ourselves. We are irritated by our minds to the point of pain. We are amused by our minds to the point of pleasure.
Where do ideas come from? From the outside world? But what happens to them in the mind that transforms them from fragments to a solid whole; A system. A dead thing is made alive. A seed of visual and auditory data is transformed into a tree of meaning. How does this happen? Isn't it miraculous?
Where does poetry come from? Such perfect thoughts are imbued with so much strength and emotion. How do they just occur?; A one in a million chance or even more. And they just occur. The masterpieces of art and poetry sometimes leave us speechless. How does this happen? How does something resonates so deeply with your identity and who you are that it makes you weep and transforms you forever? Human beings are strange. Our minds are strange. How similar we are to everything around us in the body. But our mind? Is there anything remotely similar to our mind in this world?