My mind is a place both shallow and deep. Ideas, shoals of flashing thought, dart about devouring one another. There are all different kinds. Monstrous squid wander the depths and, here and there, sleek Mako cruise the expanse. I have my tropics too, blooming with color, and a few clown-fish to brighten the scene. Like all wild things, they are shy.
These thoughts belong in the wild, they fare poorly in captivity. Most times, no sooner have I set down the pen than I glance back at the poor creatures and feel a little sick. There they are, futilely bumping away against the glass. My present catch thrashes apprehensively in the tank: still brimming with vitality. That will soon change.
Where was I going with this? It started off as a short post about my difficulty with committing my ideas to paper. I have no trouble thinking them up, but I know I can't transcribe them faithfully from brain to paper without somehow losing the important bits. As I was about to type that I struck, somehow, upon the idea of ideas as living things, and from there I jumped easily to the ocean metaphor.
It is difficulty to describe the difference between life and death. What makes a person live. What spark of animation fades upon death? Although we do not know, the discrepancy is glaring to our human eyes. In my metaphor, which I abandoned out of impatience, a similar difference exists between ideas in my head and ideas on the page.
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