I’ve been thinking again. With as much thinking as I do, I’m clearly anxiety-riddled or meant to be a philosopher. I know the former as truth and not so much the latter. Although I poeticize and philosophize quite often, I’m not inclined to think and orate on my thoughts professionally, at least when it comes to philosophy. Give me a good book and just one other interested party and I’ve got my soapbox.
I’m in the middle of a whole new series of ideas, some of which are ripe and plump, ready to be plucked and harvested. Others are wrinkled, dripping to the point of fermentation. Some others are sour, too late to good for anything until their dried out to season another idea. Still, some others are at the pique of their picking time. They’re ready to be casked and distilled at a later date. Some of those “saved for laters” will be shipped off to others via the Eudaimonia Express on the Creativity Highway. Some will collect dust and appear, miraculously, at the end of a celebration after all the lesser ideas have been sipped away.