Thought has moved me from here to there. But I know not what controls my thought. These words I write, where do they come from? It seems they happen on a subconscious level, that I do not consider the phrases that pour out, and yet somehow they reflect my intention. Mystery within a mystery, like a riddle inside a dream.
Thought has moved me from here to there. But why? Is there a deeper purpose that I am not aware of on the levels of my consciousness I can reach, yet touch me somewhere within, and guide me where I should be? Shall I speak of destiny, or shall we never understand for what we live? Perhaps I know not what I ask. Perhaps the only questions worth asking are the ones we don't understand.
Thought has moved me from here to there. But I think my moving is not so very much. From out some millions of miles, the whole of the world is a tiny blue dot. I must remember that my thought has only moved me, that the Earth spins without a care where I go, and that these dreams I have, that drive my thought: they are less than nothing, a debt to be paid, for I was given my life to give something back. Such infinite wonder that I am — I aspire to earn what cannot be bought.
