In man’s mundane mental world there is no creation sans imitation –
which is why to some, it is so redundant, boring and unenlightening,
and which is how routine minds are kept from disintegrating.
 

Outer physical reality has a natural consistency upon which man unthinkingly relies;
his inner mental reality, upon which he also much depends,
has no such inherent coherence.
A man knows that the rocks in his yard will be the same today as they were yesterday, as will their atoms,
but from one day --  one minute to the next,
he has no such assurance that his wife’s attitude, or even his own,
will be likewise concordant.
 

Outer reality has a natural consistency;
man’s inner reality has none --  it must be begot,
and in this mental realm there is no creation sans imitation:
an arrangement that both allows for change
while not severely disturbing the status quo,
but the only part of that of interest to the few is the fact that
it restricts change --  and thus the explosive mental expansion they crave.
 

In the normal play of man’s inner reality there neither is, nor can there be
anything literally original, and ergo, truly creative;
everything new is derivative --  an altered imitation of something extant;
the actions of atoms are consistent from moment to moment by nature,
while those of men’s verbalized thoughts
(the only ones of even apparent significance in their lives)
seem so only by the repetitive use of familiar ones.
In the Arts periodically pops up attempted resistance via
painting that represents nothing in the outer reality;
music not confined to local scales and harmony;
writing that is gibberish and nonsensical,
but such are mere momentary notorieties and never become accepted;
                                         the familiar marches on.
 
 

Everyone is in favor of this;
no one wants to wake up every day not knowing if
water will still be flowing downhill and out their showerhead;
or if electrons will still be acting in such a way as to heat their toaster,
or if the personality of the person they went to bed with last night
will be the same one they find their self faced with in the morning;
nothing would destroy a man’s sanity faster than being in a world in which
everything he expected to happen --  failed to,
and the only world in which this treat exists is man’s mental one:
thus the overriding importance that everything which asserts  --  creative,
                                                     be in large --  imitative.
 
 

The mundane world’s so-called “thinkers” amount to this:
Amateur painters in the Louvre, making copies of the Old Masters --
….‘cept in this instance, there are no actual Masters --  only the amateurs.
The only artists shown in established galleries are those of the
Ouroboros School, (cannibalria generalus; plagiarirus incestius),
and by so doing is the public spared disruptive outrage,
and the march of progress kept civilized.
 
 

But the few born in a straightjacket,
who feel they are living in a fog which those around them do not notice,
they cannot tolerate an inner reality so constricted;
to realize their special aim requires unfettered creativity in thought,
but there is none to be found  --   not outside their self –
not out there amidst everyone else in the parade.
The degree of creative thought they actually need to reach their goal
would be thought totally unconnected to any thought they had ever had before --   which seems literally impossible given the physical dimensions of this universe
(as perceivable by mortal minds, at least);
there is no such thing as a thought that is totally independent from every other thought ever thought, but by god that is precisely what it takes to
ever awaken yours from the ignis fatuus realm in which it is now stifled.

It is necessary --  yet seemingly not possible;
how can you have some thought that is not at least partially imitative-of,
and connected-to thoughts which men have already had?
It really does sound impossible  --   until you consider it more carefully;
what kinda of thought COULD be completely unrelated to any thought
you or anyone else has ever had before? --  what possible kind?! –
but there is one,
and its operational reality is coded in the very sentence
rhetorically questioning the possible existence of such:

                           The thought is right there amidst that jumble of words;
                                   grab it!  --  it’s the only creative one there is.
 
                                                                  J
 
 
 
 
 
 

What kind of snake indeed could swallow itself so completely that not nothing is left --
rather the full explanation of its prior apparent existence?
 
 
 
 
 

  …...caveat non compos goobers.