The little things I think are thought when I think little of things.

These things aren’t original thoughts, rather, thoughts by others more original.

Opinions by geniuses, solutions by innovators, creations by the best creators.

But thought has cost that is wasted and lost.

Frostbite in the desert. Counter intuitive, but only until you realize its night.

A thought to be shared, cared for, left to linger in the air or something for us to stare towards.

A thought is a waste of energy, energy I’d gladly waste thinking.

This sinking feeling, stealing my attention, giving me an apprehension to action. It’s all my intention to understand this dissention with madness.

It’s not sadness. I think therefore I am. This madness is me, this madness is fair, this madness is made of the little things I think when I think little of things.

It’s thoughtful misery.

By Seth McAllister