Thoughts That Belong on Milk Cartons

To paraphrase a song by The Tokens, my thoughts are like a bird in flight; they circle you and then fly out of sight. For example, earlier today I had a strikingly profound thought, and I commanded myself to remember it so that I could write it here tonight. In lieu of that thought, which has continued its migration to more adhesive minds, I offer you this entry, which is likely far less profound.

I have read of people who practice what is called automatic writing. I refer, not to those individuals who claim to come under the posession of some deceased peron or other exotic spirit, but such people as Rene Magritte who simply tapped into the level of consciousness immediately underlying the surface, and recorded it. I would like to do that. Perhaps the profound thoughts that perch on my synapses briefly throughout the day have simply migrated to the warmer, more interior regions of my consciousness, along with, as Billy Collins observes, the quadratic formula and the names of the muses. If so, then they may be reclaimable afeter all.

I have long thought that the greatest gift one could recieve would be to experience the consciousness of another human firsthand. To actually posess their perspective and board their train of thought. It seems that to live in another's mind like that would be the ultimate consciousness-expanding experience--even if the new perspective was one you thought was only marginally different from your own. Could it be that automatic writing is the key to this sort of experience (And you had thought I completely jumped topics non sequitir, didn't you)? If I could actually transcribe the sequence of my thoughts, which is often a mix of song lyrics, retreaded dialogue, and epiphany, I could then hand it to a potential firend or lover with the caveat, "Read me, and if you think you can handle it, let's hang out."

But then, that's sort of what you're reading now; isn't it?