Life is a flash in the pan. I live opportunity to opportunity. I am inherently physically and mentally gluttonous.
I find thoughts of flesh and skin titillate my brain, and I return to them between the other mundane required thoughts throughout the day. On my way to the bathroom I’ll entertain notions of co-workers naked, or weekend fantasies that loom closer-than-life. I’ll be in a daze. As I sit back down at my desk these thoughts fade into background — as they should — but creep into the corners of my activities, nagging me to pull them out and entertain them at the forefront of my conscious thoughts.
Good books are like this, waiting in the wings of the stage of my imagination, jumping uncooperatively into conversations when I least expect them. Ideas that seem at times intelligent, compelling me to make them real, to sacrifice other thoughts while they roam the corridors of my consciousness.
Today’s fuzzy instinct might be tomorrow’s eureka… but for the gluttony. The sloth in my imagination. The imagination that claws the walls this drudgery, this mental confinement–my boring day, my placating job, my lack of creative outlet…
This is to say: I just sit and think about shit. All day. Daydreaming. Thinking nothing, and everything. Mostly thinking just the thoughts that come easy, slipping to the surface like bubbles in soap.