Not a single thought any more.

By writing about life, I create life. My life. My impressions. Of what’s important. To me. All this may be meaningless to others. But it has meaning for me. Because I am defining myself. As a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. In essence, I am creating myself. With words. With language. With actions, too. With the way I choose to live. And the way that I interpret. Life. My life. In that sense, I’m living what I write.  I’m feeling the pulse beat. With thoughts. Put into words. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a thought.  For a thought to be a full-fledged thought, I have to capture it. By putting it into words. My words. Before the thought becomes elusive. And perhaps disappears. Forever.  Maybe that’s all I am. A collection of thoughts. Makes me wonder. If when I die, all my thoughts disappear. As if I never existed. There’ll be no proof that I ever was. Or for that matter, that anyone ever was.  Not a single thought any more. –Jim Broede