The windmills of my mind

Sometimes, when I am alone, I sit there and think. I could also sit over here; but it is usually there. Next to the window. Looking out into our back garden.

Sometimes, I sit there, or here, and think silently. At other times I think loudly. Speaking to myself as it were.

Thoughts cross my mind. Going round and round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel, never ending nor beginning, on an ever-spinning reel. Like the circles that you find, in the windmills of your mind.

I do hate plagiarism.

It is so cheap and so bad. I wish people would stop doing it.

Would it not be wonderful if everyone was original and there was no plagiarism? You, may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one. I hope someday you will join us. And the world will be as one.

Free from plagiarism.

I think to myself. And then I say whispering to myself, "I think, therefore I am".

René Descartes the philosopher said that. He was making the point that if you are able to think therefore you exist. 

I may use this saying some day in discussion to prove I am educated. That's not plagiarism. It is research. If you repeat something someone considered to be important said, then you are learned. It is not plagiarism. Everyone considers you to be clever for even knowing who Descarte is, never mind quoting him. That's the subtle difference between plagiarism and straight cheating and stealing someone else's clever sayings.

So I repeated to myself, "I think, therefore I am".

"I am"... I said. To no one there. And no one heard at all. Not even the chair.

Then I realised I was speaking to myself.

So I decided to phone Neil Diamond to find out why the chair did not listen to him either. Was he being boring perhaps?

But I could not phone him because I did not have his number.

For a while there, or here, can't remember where, I just sat thinking.

For once in my life I was lost for words.

That's because I did not have my dictionary with me. Not that it would have helped because it is an Italian dictionary and I always think in English.

That's a point, I thought.

Do foreign people think in their own languages? The Italians, French and so on? Or do they think in images, pictures cross their mind rather than words. 

How do I think, I thought. In words or images? 

Or is it in images which my mind simultaneously interprets into words faster than the speed of light?

And is there anything faster than the speed of light? What if light itself was in a fast car? Would it be faster than itself. 

But no one heard me. The chair stood there as dumb as ever.

So I phoned my friend, Ivor Rowbottom. That's not his real name. His original name was Ivor Sorebottom but he changed it by Deed Poll which you can do in the UK.

Anyway, I asked Ivor, "why did the chair not hear me?"

"Because it is an inanimate object, you idiot!" he replied.

"But what about Neil Diamond and his chair?" I asked again to prove my point.

"I don't know," he said, "maybe his chair is deaf. You know how these artists are. They write lyrics that originate round and round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel, never ending nor beginning, in an ever-spinning reel. Like the circles that you find, in the windmills of their mind."

At this point my family came in from shopping and interrupted my train of thoughts.

Why are trains so late these days? The other day at my railway station they said it was because of shortage of staff. Why can't they employ taller ones?