Thoughts...

I was once listening to an Alan Watts podcast and what he said stuck with me, for God knows what crippled up reason.

He said, "From the day that you learned to think, you can't stop! You can't leave your mind alone".

And I don't know if it's the accuracy of this that has made its home inside me or the fact that every time I think about it, it means something new. But if anything, this makes me feel a little different, very different in fact. Somewhat like a black pebble on a beach where everyone scraps through the sand for pearls and seashells.

Why do I feel this weirdly described way? Perhaps because I think

and think

and think, about questions that don't have answers, or even if they do, I was never told how to find them. So I try to come up with my own assumptions, knowing in some silent part of myself that they'll never be definite answers.

Somehow, that couldn't stop me either.

I think so much, I try constantly to pull a thread and join two points; develop a connection between them, correlate them however and if lucky, make a little bit of sense.

Such is the case with human behavior as well, I look at people - mostly into their eyes and desperately try to read them. Perhaps figure out the moment they're alive in.

I'm infatuated with this behavior.

I've always loved reading so much, with all of me. Had it been possible, I would've married a book and then another

and another

and another

and that's the entire point!

Maybe I've been drowning in the idea of reading for so long that my lungs have forgotten how to breathe, forgotten how to do anything else. And so, now I thrive to read my way through everything.

Even human beings...especially human beings.

Back in 4th grade, I used to have a teacher, I liked her for the freckles on her nose and how elegantly she carried herself. She said to me, "You're going to grow up and you're going to be a philosopher of your own kind"

When she spoke those words to me, I chuckled lightly and moved back to my seat, but when I got back home, I skimmed through a dictionary to know what it means; philosopher.

I asked my grandfather too, I remember he said, "Allama Iqbal was a philosopher. They are people who come up with great ideas". The mere idea at that time seemed bewildering to me.

'Nonsense I had thought to myself, "I want to be a writer, all these people don't get me". But now that I am not a 4th grader childishly paving my way through the world, it makes sense to me. Not that I have ever come up with great ideas, but I sure can make myself suffer in the name of writing.

Would it be foolish if I said I quite enjoy it?

I love how it is inside my head; dark with countless question marks here and there and a migraine creeping inside from the other end at the slightest exposure to sunlight.

Despite all of this, all these thoughts, I still don't know myself, how could I possibly read or know anyone else?

How could I even begin to make sense of the world and its complexities? Perhaps that is the purpose of life, to untie knots that were never there, to try and objectively understand a reality that is subjective...for as long as time goes on.