/lit/ - Literature

Every thought, of any degree of profundity, comes to me only as a whisper; briefly blowing in, then vanishing like a gust of mild wind. I await a moment of eureka that will illuminate my mind like a fire in a dark room, but all I ever get is but a spark. Confound it all! And why is it that this mind of mine, so prone to thoughts unique and questions unexplored, so idle in the moments of clarity that are granted to me? Is it an illness? Stillness? My mind is as clouded and troubled as Gautama's before he sat beneath the tree. Will meditation or reflection deliver the spark to the thought that is to be my illuminant, or is it in darkness, with only brief respite, that my ponderances are condemned?