I sit down. To write. With nothing specific in mind. Out of
habit. Compulsion. It’s fun. To see what
comes. Maybe a thought. Buried deep. That oozes to the surface. For no rhyme or
reason. Or perhaps. Because the thought wanted to come alive. To be truly born.
In full consciousness. Maybe these
thoughts aim to take over my very being. My existence. They become me.
Physical. Or is it they take possession of my soul. My spirit. Makes me wonder.
What is the real me? A physical being. Or a collection of thoughts. Forming an
imagination. That knows no bounds. –Jim
Broede
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