One of my Facebook friends, one who I value highly because he’s a widely traveled writer, painter, and photographer who has taught me quite a few things (even though we have quite a broad range of things we disagree about as well, i.e. the origins of the human race) posted a painting which he said was painted in a ‘slightly altered’ state.
That prompted me to write this little poem:
We are all a little altered, by everything we find
There is no such thing as an unaltered state of mind
which is not really much of a poem but I think it would word well as the last two lines of a longer poem about how our minds are, at birth, a tabula rasa, and everything we do, everything we experience and perceive alters our minds a little bit. Which raises questions. What is the baseline from which we all deviate, and just exactly how different are we all from each other, and if a mind is altered, can it be altered back or does it keep going on and on with more random alterations until we are unrecognizable, even to ourselves?
So, I’ll work on that today.
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