Mar 14
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The Nature of Thought

The Nature of Thought

By Riely Amerosa

I have a large rock wall a few hundred yards behind my house. The climb is hard, full of thorns and sharp rocks, but the view from the top is well worth it. I climb. At the top I look out on my home, my yard, the trees. In the distance I can see the great mountain of Vermont, the one that is larger than the rest, Mansfield. At the top of the rock wall there is a boulder. We sit, me and the mountain, in silence, wondering what the other is thinking. I can see far, I see the trees that cover the mountain, the snow that covers the trees, the sunlight that covers it all. I've always wondered if we can see wind. When there is a tornado, we just see the dust and debris that the wind picks up, but do we see the wind itself. I see the wind move the trees, but I struggle to see the wind move itself. The wind rushes by my face filling my senses for a brief moment closing me off from the world. That moment can last minutes, or seconds. I look down at my hands, rough and dirty from the climb. I wipe them on my jeans and then retreate them to the warmth and safety of my pockets. I take a deep breath, feeling my body taking the cold mixture of oxygen around me and warm it up while changing it and putting something else into the world. I close my eyes and listen. The best way to describe the sound is a culmination of life. Birds, leaves, wind, people, animals, insects. All putting forth their own sounds and auras. Even the silent stone holds energy, lying dormant since its creation, energy that may never be used, but still energy. I think about thought. The act of thinking, my neurons firing so that I may think of neurons firing. Wild. I start the climb down the rock face, footholds and handholds Ive been using for years, familiar to me and only me. Maybe someday someone else will become familiar with this rock face, it's crevices, its cracks. I wonder how long it will take for someone else to discover what this rock face has shown me. Two years? Twenty? Never? What if I am the first and last person to findhimslef atop this rock wall? What if someone was here before me? What if some time ago someone was finding himself, atop this rock ledge, and he thought my thoughts, wondering if there would ever be another soul to know these handholds, know these footholds? I lower myself down the stone wall, farther and farther from the top, closer and closer to the bottom. That's the thing about life, is that with every regression, there is progression, may it be good or bad.

 
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