——The content of any thought belies all scientific accounting for its origins. Snatched from the air, received by fiat, the thought I have, though it lays claim to my attention, has arrived from outside the body–no question about it.  No ordinary mortal, or scatterbrained genius, can produce a thought wholesale, but the mind–let’s call it the mind– is only and suddenly a partner to this thought, whatever oddity it may represent, or champion in the circumstances of life. When your thoughts, as they probably must, bear directly upon the activity of your person, then you act. Often your thoughts do your body no service at all, but lead to further, even feckless, tireless speculation. This hierarchy, where thought lords over the body, is passing obvious. Vital thoughts have come to visit you, and gotten you out of your quandaries, and hourly slumps, where you are idling in mere remembrances, like rummaging through old movie reels. One does not even need thought to survive, after all, if one has already lived through a certain time, and learned to move and have regrets to feed them. The physical form can simulate a person, and slowly diminish them, now even your shadow on the sidewalk is enough to indicate you are unique.  Yes, though the brain cannot produce a thought, it can hold it, and the questions keep humming internally like a disc you forgot to take out of the video player. This is rudimentary, everyone is example and  victim of this hierarchy– in which any thought belies, speaks loudly of, its real source, which is an outlandish mystery. I can tell, says any self, my thoughts are frequently brand new to me. I am nothing if not  . . . willfulness and inspiration!
——But now a greater question arises, than the controversial location of thoughts assaulting you, I say,  I say that for a person, once they have admitted to being a receiver, a sieve, a conduit, a target for truth no less, a greater question opens up. And this is the location of established, or even dubious, ideas. Thoughts I know can take residence in my brain, and I can mull them over, cast them out, use them infinitely to my benefit. I have thoughts advising me on the very choice of words in this harangue, which will work awhile and flicker out. Thought is personal, though I don’t own it, it owns me as quick as I speak.  But wherefore the origin and habitat of already formulated ideas?– which are not mine? The large, indifferent class of ideas, in what hotel do they stay? While gaining distinction as such, lasting fame and durability, these ideas are what flow in conversation, wherever I go. People are plagued and beset by ideas, and they cannot even trace them. Some may be from books, but more are simply overheard in their lives, by osmosis, from talk and rumor and pure imagination, coincidentally rioting in the speech, and not reclaimable by any individual.  As individuals it is all we can do to sort out the dilemma of our own being.
——I say, I know my thoughts are not my own, but these general ideas, in their rough currency, seem to be quite even more in the air, and some of them pressing for solution.Or even calling for my own opinion!  We live in a world of abstractions!  This is clear.  And insofar as it is clear that a brain cannot produce a thought, as I first established, now I am suddenly wondering if it isn’t is even more impossible that an idea, which he did not have, can be handled by the lone thinker.  I mean maintained for three paces in the mind of a single person, say while determinedly walking, keeping themselves attached by an invisible thread, or a paradox, to their shadow.

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