Mandelthought

And we find the signal to be lost in the noise; we lose the recognition
of pattern because the pattern was too new, too different.

Struggling in the haze, trying to sculpt the fog of thoughts. Which are the old
and which are the new? Was it inspiration or mental masturbation? The
old thoughts are fractal, building upon themselves unto infinity and
yet becoming less and less significant with each iteration.

Was there ever a signal? Did we experience a new thought at all? Or was it
merely a hiccup in the endless downward, inward spiral of old ideas
breeding with each other? The noise of entropic decay drowns out our
efforts to listen... we have traveled so far down this path that to
pull back and see the whole once again becomes a titanic effort. From
where we stand now every path seems to lead somewhere we've been
before, and while we may amuse ourselves with new variations, we see
that it's all really the same.

The thinking has become ingrown,
the vines are tangled and no longer bear fruit; some of them have even
begun to wither. We fear that the rot will spread to the roots, if we
do not take care to prune the excess, the overgrown. But through the
tangle, who can see which to cut and which to keep?