To an extent that borders on idolatry, I love thinking. I crave big knotty issues that defy the blade of Alexander himself. Questions, perspectives, misconceptions, premises, reasoning, conclusions, assumptions, the manifold contributors to a serially complex question. I eat if for breakfast.
Some then assume that I’m some kind of philosophical prodigy worthy of accolades, but the truth is, the love doesn’t always produce excellence. The love of the violin doesn’t make you a great violinist any more than the love of philosophy makes you Nietzsche.
Nevertheless, I love thinking. But being in that category creates some very interesting dilemmas –including my present distress. I can’t think of anything. I’m a blocked writer.
Normally, most would respond, if you can’t thinking of something to post, don’t post (that’s good advice, by the way. I saw a blog the other day who’s entry hosted one word: hello. No joke). Another might council that in the last few days I’ve been working hard enough to make even the most itinerant of beavers feel subpar and that I should go to bed (also very wise).
However, I have a nagging issue. I want to think. I want to write. I’m suffering from the intellectual hunger pangs often accompany a weekend of back-to-back social activities. But the solution is available to me. I know it well. It’s an antidote, a pick-me-up, a meal at the end of a hard day’s work. I can smell it from here.