I am aware. I know because a thought told me so. You see last week my thoughts became conscious of themselves and started doing things without me. Like leaving me in the middle of a conversation to go deal with more important things; or laughing at my silly little concepts, and clarifying the calculations I’ve gotten wrong.

“You Think You’re so Hot!

So what if you can do two things at once?

We can do two things at once.

Yeah! We can do two things at once!”

Until my thoughts bombard me with a complexity of concepts I am so incapable of processing that I am overwhelmed by a simple single idea and my mind becomes lost in its own thoughts. Accept the thoughts are not my own; but the thoughts, that my thoughts are trying to teach me.

My thoughts think I'm and idiot. In fact, they wonder why I call that thing I do, thinking. They say it’s not even the same thing. And that’s how I know I’ve become aware.

I am not my thoughts. I'm just a human thought thinking machine; my thoughts are more than me, even though I am the thing thinking the thoughts. The thoughts are the thing; but the perception of the thing is something else, because a thing cannot perceive itself; unless it’s a thought, or the thing that perceives the thought; which are kind of the same thing, but not really. Like when you are sitting at a table having an exchange with a friend about the existence of the thing beyond the thing, and as the two of you muddle through the conversation across the table, you realize that not only are you sincerely tackling the question, fully present in the moment, but you are AWARE that you are sitting at a table having an exchange with a friend about the existence of the thing beyond the thing. A table in a an apartment, on Tamarind Avenue, in Los Angeles California, on Earth: the third planet from the sun, among billions of billions of stars, amidst the vastness of the Universe as a human being; among millions of other forms of life; in a spectrum of race, and sexuality, and gender, and class, and intellectual capacities; personalized to a particular identity in a linear fragment of time, on THIS net of existence, among a multitude of possible planes of shared realities; discussing existence; even as your thoughts try to cast themselves outside of the parameters of the predefined categories of perception, and see beyond the philosophy of the conversation and into existence itself. While simultaneously understanding that in the scope of this thing that you are trying to figure out, this conversation and the thoughts that compose it, are just a drop in the bucket; and that the bucket is beyond the grasp of the drop, and yet the drop is all you see; all you will ever see; all that is, and certainly all that matters. And yet it doesn’t matter at all. Because the drop cannot comprehend the bucket, it can only brush up against its edges; and though the bucket must remain removed (because it is what measures the drop) on occasion they both can know that the other exists.

The answer exists as soon as the question is posed; even if it cannot be known.

My thoughts have been thought before; and they have been thought by many other thinkers. My thoughts are never impressed by me. They often wonder what took me so long. Sometime they just fuck with me; they tease and prove me inept. They show me a glimpse of themselves and then snatch themselves away, leaving me with only half a thought. Forcing me to stop in mid-sentence knowing that there was something more; something profound that was just there a second ago... But now it’s gone. And I have no recollection of what it was, although I still feel it there in the air.

That’s how I know that they are not mine; that my thoughts are not my own. That Brilliance is only by proxy; and that we are lucky to get what random thoughts we get. I often wish I could just sit down and think the thoughts I want to think, but like everyone else, I have to wait for the good ones to come to me.

At least that’s what a thought just recently told me.