What happens if we think and merely think?
What joy can there be?
Plato once said that the ideal retirement would allow one to frolic among the pastures of philosophy. To think and think and think. In a way, I'm drawn to this vision - of languorously examining every thought, of picking them apart with curiosity, before discarding them whenever disinterest strikes.
In other ways, such an existence struck me as a nightmare. To think and merely think. To live in a limbo, where thoughts are one and all. It's nauseating.
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