Squiggles was a man who had a great deal of trouble thinking. His train of thought would careen off the track before it even left the station. If Squiggles' thoughts jumped off a boat into a lake, they'd bypass the water and get stuck in the mud beneath.
Conveniently, that was where Squiggles now found himself: sitting on a dock at the edge of a small lake, his legs dipped into the water.
Here, he pondered things. Many things. An absurd amount of things, really, considering that he never drew any conclusions from any of them. Nay, he was not even aware of them: within the torrent of his mind, a hundred discombobulated thoughts struggled for the seat of his awareness, and yet none could ever grab hold of the steering wheel.
It was as it always was.
Squiggles, of course, was aware of none of this. His thoughts generally stayed on the back burner of his mind, where they were frivolously being evaporated into the ether.
At the moment, his focus was certainly not on his thoughts. It was on the sand and dirt swirling around his feet as he kicked about the lake bottom, wiggling his toes in a bemused stupor.
As he continued wiggling, a huge, bald-headed man approached and sat down next to him. A string of wooden beads hung 'round his neck, and the sun reflected dutifully off his shiny, bald head. His eyes glistened with an inner smile that spoke truer than the broad grin he wore on his face.
He hiked up the hem of a silken, orange robe as he dipped his feet into the water next to Squiggles.
Squiggles, of course, noticed none of this. He was watching the storm of sand he had kicked up from the lake bottom, However, when a third foot probed its way into the swarm of dirt and dust he'd created underwater, and then a fourth, he was quite taken aback.
"There's a lot going on in there," the man rumbled.
Squiggles looked down at the muddled waters he'd created. "I guess so."
"Not down there," the hulking bald man replied, pointing a finger at Squiggles' forehead, "in here."
Squiggles gave a nervous laugh. "I mean, not really... I mean, most of the time I hardly think at all. Y'know?"
The man grinned and leaned back, letting his palms sink into the beach sand.
"Not thinking at all?" he murmured. "Must be nice."
"I don't know, I guess. I mean, I don't really think about what I'm thinking, y'know?"
"Then," replied the round man, "how can you be so sure that you're not thinking?"
Squiggles gave pause. "I'd just know. Wouldn't I? I mean, I'm speaking these thoughts."
The orange-robed man barked a laugh. "There are a great many people who speak without thinking, my boy."
"I guess so."
The man reached out a fleshy hand and rested it atop the brown scraggles of Squiggles' hair. "Behold."
Squiggles was suddenly bombarded by such an overwhelming array of inconnected irrelevance that the world in front of him lost its shape. The lake was assailed by thoughts of the evening's dinner, anxieties over the weird smile he gave the girl when she held open the door for him, musings about his an infinitesimally small place in the universe, memories about his old dog that died when he was twelve...
Squiggles gave a great cough as if he was expelling lake water from his lungs. The cacophony of thoughts ceased.
"What was that?" he gasped.
"That, my friend, was your mind. Those are the thoughts that you carry with you everywhere, every day. You just don't pay attention."
Squiggles was massaging his temples, gazing across the lake through squinted eyes.
"So... where are they now?"
The bald man pointed at the water. Squiggles had ceased waving his feet and the water had become crystal clear. He could now see all the way to the lake bottom, where the sand had settled.
"They are still there, like the sand that has fallen back to its place at the bottom of this lake. You have been looking through muddy waters this whole time, friend. Now that the glass is polished, it is your duty to keep the windows clean."
The man smiled, and Squiggles saw for the first time the lines around his eyes. This man had lived a lot of years, smiled a lot of smiles. He waved and turned away, leaving footprints on the wet beach as he walked.
Squiggles looked down at the clear water and began, again, to stir the sand with his feet.
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