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?