I found a thought on Wednesday. By Thursday afternoon it occurred to me that I had promptly lost it. I scrambled to search my near surroundings, knowing, sensing that it was still close, still so retrievable. Had I been given the luxury of strolling down tumbleweed avenue to find this thought, it would of stood out right away in all it’s simple glamor. But no, this was more like Las Vegas’ Strip. Even if I picking it out with my eyes amongst the shine, shimmer, and shizzaz was impossible, it was hopeless too to try and listen for it. The clanks, clangs, and clamors would hardly let slide through the wispy, though entrancing, whisper of a thought.
And so I settle for this thought. This mind as loud, cluttered, busy, and overwhelmingly organized, so that even the organization comes through as disorganized. What are you talking about?? You may ask. It’s the tiny compartments. Everything fits into one. I need to compartmentalize all of my thoughts because I know this flaw I have of losing track of them. So I do so. But my mind so distinctly wants them sorted, that one thought is never quite the same as another, and they lapse categories only when that rare lightning bolt of inspiration creates an electric flow through them.
It’s the same tendency I have with treasured items. They are so precious and sacred I must find a spot worthy of their keeping. I think long, or not at all, until this place comes to mind. I store it with a sense of relief, knowing that my item is not to be discovered by the wrong hands, not to be displaced, or not to be passed along with any other casual items that it out stands. And then, I go to retrieve it, and in my care and caution to hide it so delicately, I discover I’ve hidden it from myself. I found such a grand and wondrous place of safety for my treasure, that even my memory can’t intrude upon it.
This is the case with things, I know, but now I know too that it is the case with thoughts.
I fear this.
I mourn already the lost thoughts of the past – thoughts that are already so safely tucked away that I can’t even remember their tucking away. I know, as is the case with my treasured things, eventually, even if years later I stumble across them again. But the treasure isn’t always the same. I find the dime ring that meant the world to me and that I wore with all the pride and glory of a queen, only to laugh at it’s diminishing copper shine and plastic opal. I hesitate in discarding it for only the second that the dear memory of its value to me lingers.
I mourn too the lost thoughts of the future – yet to be lost – yet I dread and glory dually at my mind already working beyond me to craft new “safe” hiding spots. Spots that I can glory in when I first endow them, spots that I can thank my ingenious mind for discovering. But spots that my mind outworks itself and me f0r. And spots that I know will become holes dug and covered in the sand, only rediscovered by chance. Even if marked. There is no retracing a buried shell or stone on the beach.

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