EPTI had a dream not to long ago, I'am pretty confident that that isn't the only dream that I've had recently, but if that's the only dream I remember, does that make it - hypothetically - the only dream that I have had recently? I don't know. The scenery was lush and green, wherever you turned, there was greenery. Far beyond, what served as a wall, to prevent me from looking to far or rather thinking too far, was an immense collection of a wide variety of trees. Up close there was an extensive rape field, I think that the correct term would be canola field, but I wouldn't know. There was a breeze blowing, and with it, came the majestic scents of nature. It was not too strong; the breeze. It was enough so that you would not break into a sweat and enough so that you wouldn't think of it as too chilly or too out of place seeing that there were two massive clouds that hung above.
But then again, what is the relationship between breezes and clouds? I don't know.
I'm sitting underneath a tree. It wasn't a particularly big tree, but it provided a sufficient amount of shade. Why am I in my school uniform? That's a question that I don't even need my sub-consciousness to answer (that is, if dreams were controlled by the sub-consciousness of people). Beside me, sat the most beautiful girl that I have ever laid eyes on. Her hair was tied up into a loose bun, or maybe what they call it is the onion nowadays. Whatever it was, there were a few groups of loose strands of hair that lay about, dancing feebly in the blowing breeze. Messy, yet tidy. She's looking at me with her eyes, eyes that I don't even know the colour of, but I could see the twinkle in her eyes as she gazed into my own pair. She too, was in her uniform. A little smile that did not show much, but yet at the same time said a lot was formed by her rosy pink lips.
![[image loading]](http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m19g8hdFn91r5ezsqo1_500.jpg)
Something like this, can't decide between top left or bottom right.
That's it.
There are other times where I'm often distracted by the processes going on in my brain. Thinking and thinking. I find this strange however, all this thinking. It's apparent from my result slip that clearly, I do not posses the ability to comprehend the complexity of Mathematics and I do not have a head for the Sciences. Not that much, anyway. Words often fail me, it seems. But then, what is the meaning of all these letters and numbers on a piece of paper? These figures on a crude bundle of polysaccharides, cellulose, and whatever else. Yet, it plays a pivotal role in determining the course of our lives.
Sometimes, I like to think about thinking. Thinking about other people thinking. Thinking about how people who once had lived thought. Thinking about how things are meant to be read. Thinking when I'm reading about the fact that I'm actually thinking to myself in the voice that I use to tell other people what I'am thinking. Do we usually hear our own voice when we think? Do we usually think by replacing our thoughts with a visual representation of our thoughts (a scene, a picture, whatever else) and string them together to form a film and add our own subtitles to it?
Thinking about all these things sometimes lead me to think if I'am different from others. Why is it that it seems that I'am only person that is able to think about things in such a way? But then the answer comes to me, in what seems like an ironic fashion, through thinking a little bit more. I know, and I hope I actually do, that no two people are the same. This probably means that the thought, wait, maybe not so much the thought (or essence of it), but how the thought came about or how the thinker chooses to present the though to him or herself, is unique! Nobody, even if you are able to take all the dead people up for consideration, has thought or is thinking in the same manner. Is this correct? I don't know.
This little epiphany has given me a warm feeling in my heart. Not that heart-warming, just enough to put a slight smile on my face whenever I think about it again. One of the many implications of this (if it were true) would be that no original piece of writing is the same. The nature of them may be identical, but yet, they are not the same. This would mean that every time something is written, it's new!
Of course, as I had thought, there would be certain cases where they may be exactly the same, like "I like grapes." or "One day John went to the park and he saw an injured puppy. It was underneath a bench and it's brown eyes were darting back and forth, wary of any potential assailants. The poor pup was inundated with paranoia and fear and John knew this and wondered, would it be able to express it's feelings to other creatures capable of understanding it's speech. He cautiously approached the bleeding animal, taking small and careful steps in a bid to symbolise his hospitality and peace. The terrier peeked out from the shade that the bench had provided it with, sticking it's nose into the warm and inviting sunlight, taking a break from licking it's bleeding paw. A smile spread across John's face, all this time still maintaining the decorum that he had established on his own." and on and on and on and on. Who knows if somebody has every written the same thing in the exact same manner in the exact same structure as I had. I don't know all these things but yet I say all these things.
What does that make me?
