I have an incredible mind.

This is not a statement of arrogance, it is a statement of etymology. When I say "incredible", here, I mean "unbelievable". Nobody could argue that this mind operates in a believable manner.

I do not think anyone has ever accused me of having a one-track mind. I don't think anyone could and keep a straight face.

This mind is a Fourier transform. Now, I will admit I have no experience with that mathematics, but I know the concept, and that is what matters for the metaphor, here. The theorem around which the Fourier transform is built states that any periodic curve, no matter how complex, can be written as a sum of sine waves of varying periods, amplitudes, and displacements. Fourier transforms themselves - if I remember correctly - are used to take apart curves into their component bits for analysis. This is probably wrong, but it's the theorem that's important here.

The thoughts seem to skip, but they do not. Think, if you would, of that vast, complicated wave pattern, all of the sinusoids that weave together to make its incredible complexity. Now, break down that pattern into its individual ones, and put a thought on each one. The thoughts do not skip, but they dip below the axis into the subconscious, they are active but superceded by a higher amplitude.

I have the attention span of a fruitfly on speed. However, since that span of attention - if there is something that I need to do - flickers back to that topic at a high frequency, it seems that I am actually devoted to the particular task at hand. But while I work on those things, I process a myriad other things - music, characters, stories, idle rants, deep thoughts, daydreams.

I occasionally will consider myself quite mad. I have a thousand voices in my mind, taking their ten seconds of fame and then ducking back into obscurity for a time while others take the spotlight of my mind.

But all authors are insane. How else to encompass the people who take up residence in our heads, with their own lives, their independent reasons for being, their purposes, their hates, their loves? I have a horde in my head, some good people, some bad people, each riding a wave or two of thought, and none of them pay a bloody drop of rent. Aside from their life stories, they give me nothing - but those stories are breath to me.

There is music in there, as well, on as many scattered waveforms as a sound can take. I may joke that I wonder what would fit in my mind, were it not full of music - but in truth, the music is how I think, how I associate.

The songs, they connect to people, take on meanings, shorthand to navigate the meandering stormy sea of my own thoughts. I associate, I slip sideways, I catch myself, and I come up with something new. Without the music, I could not think at all, the processes would die in a stagnation of utter chaos, the confusion taking hold, nothing left but the perpetual white noise of ten thousand simultaneous thoughts.

I seem to think quickly, and perhaps I do - this is not information I have any way of knowing, in truth. But it is not speed through the patterns, it skips like a stone across the surface of logic until the meaning plunks like the last drop of the stone into the depths. The patterns are evident, and only need to be gathered up at each hop, and then carried along - and the gathering up of the threads takes less time, perhaps, than the stubborn plowing through them to get to where the waveform skipped.

Ripples of each skipped stone, they spread, they grow, they generate new ideas, new waves, until the entire structure is infallibly, unceasingly complicated. When several waves skip the same way - several stones along the same vector - the problem, the pattern, that is assaulted from several maelstroms of eddies at once, pebbles falling around the solution until their reflected waves make it clear.

Most problems do not earn themselves several waves. Most problems can be dealt with with an idle sinusiod, looping its way to the surface a few times here, a few times there, until the final solution can be seen.

Hidden ripples are dangerous, the long, slow waves that lumber through thoughts, only to emerge in a vast rumbling of hidden emotion and meaning. These are powerful things, unnerving when they are about to breach, the proccupied ripples shedding from the monster's flanks small worries about what the beast may be, wonderings about why it does not come to air and light.

But even with these preoccupations, the other patterns weave, making warp and weft of the spiderwebbings of meaning, scattering hither-thither across the nature of the mind.

I say I have an incredible mind. It does not progress in straight lines. I solved once the matter of faster-than-light travel, but it required a self-aware computer and a functional telepath, so I gave it over for a little writing for later. The characters for that are still skipping around the primordial soup of my mind, along with more developed beasts, retired ones, and the hints of ideas to come.

With science - I dabble. I cannot drive myself to progressing through the logical steps, to arrive at the solution which has already been sounded out by a half-dozen pitcheed rocks. The answer is there, and I rarely see the need to build up from there.

Yet I love debate. From this place at an angle to thinking, I circumvent arguments, dance rings of logic, and each of these constructs, ripple-found, can be based immediately off of fact, of logic. If such were not the case, they would be speculations, not answers. They would be mists and will-o-the-wisps. I make the mists solid, I walk over them, and they vanish behind me, leaving only their memory behind.

This is a mind readily given to connections, by its nature - illogic it may be, but the links between things are obvious to me, to this patterning of things, to the perpetual sounding out to the universe to see if it will answer. Emotions make powerful echoes, and run deep - people, sounded out by this thrum of meaning, to be placed in the good and worthwhile, and the echoes of the unneeded, the scenery.

There is so much of this mind to give, this nature, when each echo, each new point of reflection expands it like a fractal pattern, more interferences setting up more and more complicated ripples. It is my luck that I am allowed to love, to set up the ripples, to make a more intricate paean of the song of mind and emotion and nature and world, until, perhaps, in the music of those chiming interactions, I will hear the voice of god.

This is how to reach god - to touch and emcompass the immeasurable, to give so much that more cannot but be received, and to give that over again. I give all that I am many times over, and yet I am not empty - with each gift there is more, expansion in geometric beauty, factorials and mathematics which I see the sense of in the pattern of color and sound that I see this life as.

My mind is a Fourier transform of ever-expanding complexity. My mind is incredible. This connection, which would to some be the end of self, of ego, is the root of being, of knowing - to love, to link, these are the dreams that make the patterns live. This is what makes the echoes sound and ripple and matter.

This is existence.