traveling

Even though I know that many people would vehemently denounce similar ideas, I have a hard time imagining that anyone would disagree that our minds can travel to what we perceive, in one sense or another, to be distant places, even while our bodies remain wherever we happen to bodily be, and that, having traveled mentally to some distant place, we can in some rather vivid way, things that are in some way perceptually not where we bodily are but are rather in those perceptually distant places. I have a hard time imagining that anyone would not agree that people perform this feat all the time, and that they themselves do so all the time.

In this sense I can mentally travel into the world and visit people who might read whatever I am writing, and, in a way which feels like peering into their minds, somehow, I can hear, as it were, what different people might think about what I am saying with my written words. Or, here, it is what I am thinking about writing, or about writing about, to which I can hear people respond. This may be called a feat of imagination, but it feels quite real, to the point where I suspect - this being, of course, only my opinion - that it in fact is real. This, however, is neither here nor there, but I would at least assert that this kind of mental travel might be useful to me, and definitely that it is interesting to me and rather fun.

I propose to write about the stock market, and, with that said, my mind travels and visits, in, actually, as I notice, now, in very rapid succession, a number of different people in a number of different places, and I find the thoughts I encounter, in so doing, are quite daunting. The people I visit are skeptical, right away, of the idea that I might be writing, though they are willing to grant that writing can be a valid activity. Then, when they learn what I propose to write about, their expression turns to disgust, quite often, or at least acute and rather weary skepticism.

Given this, what ought I to do? I could simply proceed, I suppose, and perhaps I should. Perhaps to do so would be a commendable act of courage, even the commendable courageous response, but the idea of it does somewhat pain me. There is also this: in the manner of dew drops hanging on the leaves of trees around me in a wood which would be my mind, dew drops that sparkle in the limpid light, in a rather delightful way, are hints of thoughts which suggest alternatives, or a kind of alternative. Given this, perhaps I ought to explore that alternative a bit, or investigate it, and perhaps there would be no harm in doing so.

It is late. I need to retire. I'm interested to think whether I will be able to pick up the thread of these thoughts again, at the next opportunity.