I love thinking. I even love thinking about thinking. Thus, I am a woman of thought--or perhaps a woman with a torrent of puerile thoughts. But, say, my thoughts have evolved too ever since I have begun blogging. Puerile or mature, my mind is bent to fluctuate in varying degrees of discernment. Of the world, that. It might be an appealing fanciful disposition, this being a thinking individual. I have been thinking too much, I'm afraid, that the calculations in my head surpass even my awareness, and when time has lapsed, I'd just realize I've been frittering my life away for, yes, futile impracticabilities. It must be an abominable thing, this idle activity--all of us think, all humans do. Nay, animals as well, and plants, I might add; but neither are they conscious of it. Plants, according to scientific findings, do feel emotion: the breeze give them a waving gentle delight; the sunlight and our own exhalations osmose through their stomata like chocolates to kids, perfume to women, and wine to men; the mineral-rich rainwater they slake from their roots gratify them like nectar to bees, or fellatio to hoes; then after they photosynthesize they orgasm in the form of oxygen, a relief as much as we do when climaxing, or pissing or shitting. (Why do you think the rectal and procreation area are placed adjacent to each other?) Then when the insouciant farmer plucks out their fruits, a gland oozes sap from their fruitless arms, they, moaning mutely, defenseless. Then off goes another farmer trimming their branches with their secateurs. Another uproots them from their mother ground--them carrots and onions and potatoes alike. These, now bereft of life, like a born child whose umbilical chord has been snipped off from its mother, and the child led away right into the cannibal's broiler. Then comes the lumberjack whistling to himself as he mightily swings his axe to the base of the tree; the tree shrieks at its gnarled roots to move and run away, but they all remain deaf and fixed to the ground. Every hefty swing of the axe sends a shudder up its towering leaves, impressing pathos in its every cell; grief, revenge, and murder cast upon the clueless lumberjack. For the first time the tree feels, for emotion (as the tree is devoid of thoughts) emits an ineffable insurmountable sensation: just as it's about to die, it realizes it's alive. Thus, pathos and mathos, suffering and its significance, they feel.

So much for digressing. And yes, the thoughts. Nay, plants are "feeling" creatures. But thoughts and feelings are classified under the same rubric of, what, mind? Nevertheless, man is an active beast, unlike plants and lifeless objects. There are many verbs to describe his actions; the basics: yawn, sleep, bathe, defecate, eat, laugh, talk, fly, jump, boogie, strangulate, stab, sodomize, copulate.o_0 A thousand more, that. But I, who am not optimizing my mobility, just inertly squat or lie on a mat, my fingers doing all the motion--typing, scrawling, turning a page--and my eyeballs limited to whizzing horizontally, left to right. I may have been reduced to a plant, incapacitated to move--a sloth, a bum, a slacker, possessing an indolent body demoted to a backward head chopped off from its zombified corpse, with but an arm sticking from its neck. I would sit on my elbow, as the hand clips a book in between its fingers, and my eyes dart to and fro the pages. Such is the person that I am. But there are those who pursue this same fruitless passion for years, locking themselves in athenaeums, perusing one book after another, night after night before a candlewick of flickering light, without so much a thought as to what it would all amount to. Some have been prestiged to be hailed as literati; some, as philosophers, as existentialists, theorists, critics, and what have you. But they're all just the same: a menagerie of plants, like me, an atrabilious lollygagger. And such a useless activity, this pastime thinking, when kept to the self, grants others to think of him no more than an insensitive, pessimistic vermin, the Gregor Samsa of The Metamorphosis.

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