Your idea might yet be a formless fetus. But how do you not know that a powerful potential unformed yet, lies waiting inside the seed? So don’t abandon it to adopt another idea born from another mind’s womb. The little spark of a thought that you discard in despair, someone else might grow strong, ages hence. So don’t be afraid to think, and don’t be afraid to express it.
All revolutionaries were once bold misfits before they led the world. As long as you know you are right, it doesn’t matter if the entire world calls you strange. It might just be that you are the only sanity in a majority of oddities.
Your ideas are gold mines in an ocean – a depth of a different sort. Worry not that the draffs of dead organisms don’t make your gleaming ideas. Because years of hardened dark soil have gilded your thoughts differently, preciously.
Somewhere in this noisily functioning Earth,
Cries strong and the feeble buried in time
With dust, layers of ideas take birth
With time, new voices taking up dead ones’ old rhyme.
It’s like the forming of stones, these words
Where augment years of sedimentation of thoughts.
Over time these thought groups lay their road
Years of searching accumulating, atop the old, new findings wrought.
Roads are trees, one branching forth the other,
One man’s words a sperm for another’s philosophy.
What one finds to be expression, another dissents,
What’s one’s truth may be becomes another’s rejection.
Streams, streams these thought schools are,
All water of thoughts, yet carrying diverse sediments.
But if you find you flounder among those tides in despair,
It may be that you are swimming against the wrong currents.
So be afraid not of this myriad flood of ideas.
Years of sand and storm have shaped your ancestors’ inkling thoughts.
Now they stand in this vast rocky valleys, sure as stone and formed.
Settle your thought dust only over those stones, blow not with the wind.
Don’t think you are mute, a human squeak.
You are just speaking to the people of a language wrong.
Always there are exist those mind-twins who’d embrace you in their clique.
Somewhere where your meaningless stutters become a song.
The myriad current of confusion can’t take you astray.
Find your own expression, or no, make your own,
Because you are a fresh perspective- a motley
A new voice rising from the old rhythm’s bone.
© 2019 Sahana Narendran