Sometimes I imagine my thoughts like this: slender wires drawn by a will I cannot fully grasp, yet unmistakably feel. They do not seek order, but a kind of truth. They bend, intersect, spiral gently, as if trying to remember something beyond the reach of time.
Perhaps they are not merely thoughts. Perhaps they are the traces of our relationships, the lives we’ve brushed against in passing, the people who have shaped us unknowingly. Maybe each wire is an unfinished intention, a question left suspended, a connection that continues to resonate long after silence has settled in.
There are knots. Points where everything gathers, where the wire no longer moves forward without pausing for a moment. I believe consciousness lives there, in those quiet convergences, each of us held briefly between choices, between what we have been and what we might have become.
And I wonder, as I look, if perhaps all these threads already exist. If we are but echoes of a larger thought, stretched across space, memory, and something that has no need for words. A thought that dreams, and from time to time, remembers us.