I Think That I Think


It’s origin is unknown [grab that next thought please, and ask it where it came from].

It’s stage can’t be located. [Inside my head? Beneath the sink? In Kiev?]

It’s terminus is not found. [Where do all those thoughts go, like stairs in an escalator?].

I can’t see it. I can’t hear it. I can’t smell it. And any thinking about it, muddles it more.

I Think. I Think that I think. I Think that I think that I think…

No self-respecting scientist would take seriously something to which he cannot give the simplest of coordinates.

There is nothing I understand less than this thing called ‘Thought’. Yet nothing is more real to me than this which I understand the least.


I cannot deny you the smile: at  least one respected and self-important Philosopher majisterially defines a Philosopher as one who: ‘Thinks about Thinking’.