I've always considered myself a being of thought. One who often finds themselves lost in the recesses of their mind, wandering around aimlessly pondering many of life's peculiarities, often distracting themselves with stories and narratives concocted from their own imagination. There have been times that I would catch myself in the middle of mentally writing a eulogy for someone who still lived, or laying out completely implausible, yet fantastic, scenarios that would occur which would bolster me to fame by giving me absurd opportunities to compose some famous literary work. Here of late my mind seems to sometimes check out from reality, often leaving it difficult to deal with real world. I have found during these times it is challenging to communicate with others, as their words snap me back to a realistic harshness, so contrasting to the peaceful bliss that is my thoughts. It is during this mental reclusiveness that I seek solace in solidarity where I let my mind roam free, or by burying my nose deep in a book, immersing myself in a world of grand wonder. Yes, I do believe that having an active mind is an amazing thing. It constantly keeps one entertained and in a constant state of wonder. However, it can also be a poison. To continually dwell on thoughts of life can turn negative when one forgets to also partake in life.
For these reasons listed above, I realized that I needed to return to writing once again.
"We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think. When the mind is pure, joy follows like a shadow that never leaves."
-Bhuda
