ideas

Where do they come from? Where do they go? Sometimes my life seems like one massive idea mobbing through a nebulous cloud of possibilities.

I let them get away from me, especially the really beautiful ones - feeling as if I hold on to them, I'll taint them. I like to think that they find their way to a meaningful destiny; like an ordinary, red, bouncy ball that gets away and find its way through a dirty gutter, to the hands of a child and sets their eyes a glow. She treasures it, cuddles it, uses it in the most creative ways. Where as I would let it stagnate and morph within the procrastinating pit of my mind. Until it becomes nothing and I become a dissapointment.