I know I’m not the only one who has ever been afflicted with this urge, but it seems to intensify as I age. It’s as if I must get the ideas that are constantly streaming into my head down on paper before they fade away like the images of a dream, like crystals of hoar frost melting on a sunny February morning.
The joy of life rises in my consciousness, like the waters of an artesian fountain and cannot be suppressed. It is a blessing and a curse. I cannot wait for money or the opportunity for my thoughts to be published, so I am thankful that I can post them here, with the hope that they will be gathered in the future and recorded in a more permanent way. They are like the tracks of a pre-historic creature in a sand dune of mud bank of his time, only to be buried in layers deposited over the ages, and perhaps thus preserved to be uncovered at some future date. When uncovered, will they be deemed meaningful, or considered as chaff to be scattered in the wind? Hopefully, some future soul will discover them, recognize them as the rare treasures I believe them to be, and be inspired by them. In that way, if in no other, I will live again.
To what do I attribute my exuberant verbosity? Perhaps there is a clue in my ancestry. My ancestral origins are varied and diverse: In the DNA of my eight great-grand-parents I find, in no particular order: traces of Scot, English, Irish, Scandinavian, German, Jewish, Middle-Eastern, and North African blood. Going back four more generations, there are also traces of DNA from Greece, Italy and the Iberian Peninsula. Perhaps I got the best luck of the draw from all these ancestors and cultures. Perhaps this diversity is the reason I am blessed with insights that may escape the notice of most people. I think there may be a correlation between this diversity of heritage and the diversity of my thought, and even my IQ.