Untitled, as a fitting title.

Twinkle twinkle little star,
how I wonder who you are...

Behold, a baby. Or a toddler. Male or female, you don't know, can't know, what sort of human being will emerge. Will he be an artist, tormented by feelings and emotions, trying to express what he cannot? Will she be a dancer in childhood, forgetting all those lessons and practice in adolescence? Will he be a chauvinist or gallant? Will she be loose or virtuous? Will either ever ponder the difference, or just move on like everyone else?

The world, by its very existence, to me, seems incomplete. It is unfinished, as if the ultimate Programmer couldn't streamline things and left for Her coffee break, and quit Her job before ever coming back. This vortex inside my mind keeps making me wonder - is there a point to anything at all?

All these things that we are taught to care about - right and wrong, nice and bad, good and evil, they are now evidently shown to be highly subjective matters. Our dreams, which we are told are the mind's menanderings, wayword journeys of no importance, simply expressions of expression itself, are now of more import. My dreams mean more to me now. And thoughts are somewhere in between these dreams and reality.

For thoughts portray both dreams and reality. We think of what is, and what is not; of what could be, and what will definitely not. Of what ought to be, and what definitely should not. And whence from these directives? Whence from this guiding arrow of rightness? From within? Or from the collective without stretched across the vista of time?

Questions, more questions. And no answers, unless you seek them. And even then, only the ones that you decide to hold veracious for your own sake. Wherefrom then, is the guiding beacon to come in this journey from birth to the Life's Beyond? Am I to accept the preachers, the teachers, and the saying of varied classes of creatures? Am I to find meaning in what others have said, and keep it as the meaning for my own conscience?

Am I to consider any thought, any conjecture from my own mind worthless, unless sustained by support from the already collated wisdom of those having passed and engaged in passing in the without? Am I to peer suspiciously at any newfound notion that comes up an upstart in my brain?

These thoughts of thoughts are thoughts themselves. And not just thoughts at that, but thougts mingled with dreams and digressions from the established patter of thought. Do then, these thoughts, carry no weight in the world of dreams, as those hold down no weight in the world of thoughts? But then, are not these two worlds the same? The mind. My mind.

These two rivers merge, tumultous in their confluence. And nothing is clear enough in these waters.

So what remains? The self? But the self precludes any discussion with itself. There is too much haze, too much murkiness in the realm of consciousness, for me to try to see, to think of. Hie! Enough of thoughts. I shall sleep then, I think. Sleep, and dream.