I once promised myself that I'd write down every thought I had for a brief but unspecified period - a day seemed more realistic than a week or a fortnight.
I wanted to write in a clear and unambiguous way, unaffected by perception or mood, and overcome the desire to omit anything on the grounds of inappropriateness or tedium.
The aim was nothing less than a clear but miniscule window into the soul, that I might turn the contents of otherwise idle musings into something composite and capable of uprooting the small psychological barriers which otherwise become mountainous.
That I haven't chronicled every mental cul-de-sac by now is evidence that the job was too intricate and demanding for even a decicated scribe. Notwithstanding the fact that I must be left alone for a full 24 hours to record absolutely everything without distraction, the circularity of the task is inevitably defeating.
It is never long before the thoughts being recorded are of the form: writing down thoughts in word form is pointless. It is then when censorship creeps in, and the self declares that it's safe to ignore thoughts of that self-referential nature. The playful, undirected mind sabotages the job in hand by thinking: I shall not write down the next sequence of thoughts, which is then itself written down.
The mind is a device trained upon the outside world. Like the camera, it is accustomed to surveying everything but itself.
