Thinking doesn’t, by and large, do one much good. Especially not when you use your grey matter to ponder imponderables, unscrew the inscrutable and so on. It doesn’t really work.
Of course, if you’re thinking about simple things, such as whether to go for a drink after work or not, it can be quite productive, but thinking for thinking’s sake is a waste of time, much like blogging, which is why I am going to blog.
I like wasting time. Navel contemplation is not for me unless the funny spirally bit gains a whole new significance that is currently not apparent. I’m not going to rule it out, but for the present, other thoughts hold greater fascination such as this one:
Why, oh why do certain people recognize that sex in plants is beautiful, but think that sex among humans is somehow obscene? People drape churches, brides, homes and gardens with the flamboyant sex organs of plants: stamens standing out stiffly, girly bits exuding stickiness, framed with petals that cry out ‘Look at me! I want to do the wild thang!’; but get all uptight about nudity.
I’m not proposing that people start running around in the altogether, screwing in public the way plants do, but I do think its an odd double standard to appreciate flowers and in the same brain harbor the thought that sex is somehow ‘yukky’.
In my opinion, they’re just not thinking. They might have some idea of what flowers are for, but they haven’t made the cross over from theory to practice. If they had, there wouldn’t be a prude alive who would be able to face a flower. There’d be censorship (don’t let the children see it!), shock and horror. They haven’t heard how lasciviously the bees buzz on a summer’s day.
I have. I think. I think about things like this, and much good may it do me!