I am contradictory. I formulate a thought, thinking it will sustain me and then immediately a cavalcade of contradictions crop up unbidden. Thought stretches in manifold directions, takes numerous forms and embodiments so much so that the original thought , conceived in the ingenuous hope of its sustainability, is overwhelmed by others. The kaleidoscope undergoes multiple configurations. What also occurs, and though this process is imperceptible to me, is that thoughts intermingle, interpenetrate. One thing is mixed up with the other in polychromatic profusion. Distilling a singular sliver becomes impossible. It is very much like memory except that the thought is more evanescent.
I am self contradictory. In the mosaic of my consciousness many thoughts repose, unthought of and unarticulated. These thoughts are like petals around consciousness or arabesques. Each hue, petal is crisscrossed with filigree intersections. Each thought contains within itself many mini thoughts which go on to give the thought the form they do. But the intermingling of these gossamer filigrees underscores the tenuousness of the component parts which, though indubitably indivisible are cleaved to a larger conglomeration.
A thought juts out with many threads attached to it, many constituents adhesively but fluidly interleaved with stipples of variegation wherein a form is never inviolable because its constituents are constantly metamorphosing. In the antechamber of the unconscious mind these thoughts repose. Sometimes their emergence is unbidden,elsewhere they are wrenched into consciousness cognitively. Like a quark incessant flux is the reality of the unconscious and its protean indeterminacy.
A thought is mirrored to me when i glance into the silvered depths of the mind. It floats disembodiedly, in a concatenation .What i receive as a distillation into my conscious mind reveals, to me, the coruscating hall of mirrors in my unconscious. It is easy to get lost, be beguiled by the varying alternations of numerous reflections. But a retrospective cogitation gives a shape and a form to these inchoate nebulosities. All the images are compressed and condensed to create a singular image which is precariously soldered, capable of disintegration. But this amorphous mnemonic is all i have. From this i carve a becoming from my being.