The most dangerous brand of thought is the philosophical
The conceit is simple: with my mind, I can visualize and then enact a preferred schema
Hence the concatenation between architecture and the least honest philosophies
The brain is not so exact and the world is not so clear: the fog of reality clouds any given hour
Is the sleeping duck superior to a being that believes intermittently that thought can be translated into concrete?
Sometimes I like to enter that state, picking the bugs out of my feathers with my bill, closing my eyes to the day
A nap, a meditation, a disappearance into the fog; often this is the place to go
The dimensions of human experience are not polar: we go beyond the schematic or the unconscious
Lightly, I can grasp words, building domino strings pages long, knocking them down
I do not bet my life on the possibility of leaving my thoughts, nor on becoming my thoughts
I can extend myself into the ripples on the lake, into the feathery nap, into a conceptual paradise
Without changing my address, remaking the universe, willing outcomes
Yes, language is insufficient and faulty; I will never know the infinite knowing
Yet, there are words for the cloudy sunburst, filtering across my arm hairs with the breeze
I may not be able to force myself into the frame, posing for the wished for picture
But I can look at the screen, through the lens, trusting and questioning the light
Roman Ryan 