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Millstones and Cartwheels
#HiddenThoughts
A Poetic Hypothesis
Thoughts are like wheels, turning and churning, yet are used in different ways:
Some are used like a millstone, grinding upon itself, heavy, and movable only in place. The flour clouds the air around it like static, disturbed only by a new gust from the same source.
Others are like those wheels on a cart, gathering the flour from one mill to the next, traveling to reach the market. There it is sold to the bakers and bread is made for the nourishment of all.
One is private, sacred, unique. The other bustling, merry, gracious.
A thinker would be wise to not use man’s first invention for one thing alone.
🔸️🔸️🔸️
A Fable
The miller had been grinding the grain from his field, yet was not sending forth his flour to market. He felt the flour was not refined enough; not ready for public consumption.
The miller grew poor as he dithered, churning the same grain, again and again. The cart that took the flour to market arrived weekly and he did not acknowledge it. The carter and his daughter looked glumly at the dilapidated mill.
"Why does the miller not send forth his flour, father?"
"He thinks it is not worthy for the world, my daughter. Or they are not worthy for it."
They meant to visit the miller inside but the door to the mill was closed and locked.
One day the miller decided some of his flour was ready for public consumption. The cart came and a sack was waiting for them outside the door of the mill. They took it to the market and when it was opened those present were shocked to discover that the flour was completely unfit to bake with, or at least it was to their eyes.
"Is this what that miller has been working so hard to perfect all this time?"
"He's gone completely mad, locked away in that prison of his!"
The carter and his daughter were present and felt pity for the miller, yet they could not prevent word reaching him of his failure.
The news devastated him. He became more reclusive than ever and, as the weeks went by, no sacks were placed at his door for the carter to pick up.
"How could they not have enjoyed my flour? My whole being went into it! They must despise me. Even now I'm sure they talk with scorn of the day my flour came to market."
One day the carter's daughter asked her father to leave her at the miller's.
"I will knock until he opens the door!"
"If you wish, dear daughter. But be wary of those that do not share."
She knocked. She knocked for five minutes. She knocked for half an hour. She knocked a whole hour. She was soon to give up, before the miller finally opened the door.
He stared wildly at her.
"What do you want? You cannot come inside!"
...
A Poetic Hypothesis
Thoughts are like wheels, turning and churning, yet are used in different ways:
Some are used like a millstone, grinding upon itself, heavy, and movable only in place. The flour clouds the air around it like static, disturbed only by a new gust from the same source.
Others are like those wheels on a cart, gathering the flour from one mill to the next, traveling to reach the market. There it is sold to the bakers and bread is made for the nourishment of all.
One is private, sacred, unique. The other bustling, merry, gracious.
A thinker would be wise to not use man’s first invention for one thing alone.
🔸️🔸️🔸️
A Fable
The miller had been grinding the grain from his field, yet was not sending forth his flour to market. He felt the flour was not refined enough; not ready for public consumption.
The miller grew poor as he dithered, churning the same grain, again and again. The cart that took the flour to market arrived weekly and he did not acknowledge it. The carter and his daughter looked glumly at the dilapidated mill.
"Why does the miller not send forth his flour, father?"
"He thinks it is not worthy for the world, my daughter. Or they are not worthy for it."
They meant to visit the miller inside but the door to the mill was closed and locked.
One day the miller decided some of his flour was ready for public consumption. The cart came and a sack was waiting for them outside the door of the mill. They took it to the market and when it was opened those present were shocked to discover that the flour was completely unfit to bake with, or at least it was to their eyes.
"Is this what that miller has been working so hard to perfect all this time?"
"He's gone completely mad, locked away in that prison of his!"
The carter and his daughter were present and felt pity for the miller, yet they could not prevent word reaching him of his failure.
The news devastated him. He became more reclusive than ever and, as the weeks went by, no sacks were placed at his door for the carter to pick up.
"How could they not have enjoyed my flour? My whole being went into it! They must despise me. Even now I'm sure they talk with scorn of the day my flour came to market."
One day the carter's daughter asked her father to leave her at the miller's.
"I will knock until he opens the door!"
"If you wish, dear daughter. But be wary of those that do not share."
She knocked. She knocked for five minutes. She knocked for half an hour. She knocked a whole hour. She was soon to give up, before the miller finally opened the door.
He stared wildly at her.
"What do you want? You cannot come inside!"
...
