I wrote this a few days ago. It’s ironic, yet rather true. I believe I was twelve when I started thinking, and sometimes I find myself thinking: Seemingly thinking is becoming a rarety only few are gifted with.

When I say ‘thinking’, I’m not talking about ordinary thought passing through our brains, but realisations and deeper thoughts on subjects such as life and the commotions around it.



Every time a new thought shapes and takes form in your mind,
you create a question equal to the thought,
but when you are unable to answer the question before a new thought shapes:
You reside in an infinite amount of agony and doubt,
only to build a great wall of everlasting queries around your nous.

A writer reads books. A musician listens to music. A teacher is teached. But not their own work. When they write, compose or teach, they work while inspired by others.