Random Thoughts

Had a dark dream about being in a large building where the lifts and escalators never take me to the right floor. I wouldn’t call it a nightmare, more a mildly annoying purgatory. By the time I reached the floor, I had forgotten why I wanted to go there in the first place.

Someone joked the other day that, like Dorian Gray, I must have a picture in my attic locked away. I can confirm that is true. But instead of ageing, it slowly metamorphoses—first sprouting antennae, then hard carapace, until scuttling off the canvas.

Flawed assumptions slip into us quietly, inherited from habit, culture, or authority, and we carry them as if they were self-evident truths. Rarely do we pause to question them; they feel too deeply woven into the fabric of thought. Yet time reshapes the world, and what once stood firm begins to crumble. Still, reason marches on, building its chains from foundations already cracked. The conclusions that follow seem unavoidable, yet they are only the echo of premises long outdated. It is in this silence—where the roots of thought remain unexamined—that error grows inevitable.

In the workshop of the mind
memory is no archivist;
it blends pigments of longing and fear,
painting over cracks
with colours we ache to believe.

We speak in a chorus of selves,
each vying for the final line,
each certain its version is true.

So we live as our own narrators,
weaving tales that seem seamless—
until the light shifts,
and the joins gleam like scars.