On taking too much time

I was in the shower at the gym today, and I got to thinking about God. No, that is not a double entendre. My mind just wanders sometimes. At any rate, I got to thinking about the main reason I take exception to the deity of Christianity, and before you know it, I was on this huge mental spiel that involved everything ranging from newtonian physics to the nature of omniscience. Quantum mechanics, time, open and closed systems of bodies, chaos theory - I touched on all of it as I narrated to myself why I disliked the Christian idea of God.

All the way home, on the subway, I was still going over all the reasons in my head. I mounted a mental soapbox, as it were, and waxed eloquent on what I perceived to be a fundamental reason that Christianity is, for me, flawed. I practically narrated a small thesis on exactly why the idea of God, as it is presented in the Bible, offends my sensibilities. Then I get in front of my computer, get prepared to write some astonishing, remarkably philosophical, lovingly polished piece of vaguely self-congratulatory prose...and I lose all desire to put it into concrete words. The concept of it is still sort of floating around in my head, visually reminiscent of the Crab Nebula, but actually committing that entire piece to writing feels odious to the extreme. As a minor aside, I am extremely proud that I have found occasion to use the adjective "odious." I was remarking to Lyle only earlier today that our modern sense of language is decidedly unpoetic.

So. What does this indicate? I think it suggests a rather profound shift in my way of thinking since my younger days. Things, even things I love, take too much time these days. The idea of going back over this idea that I've already hammered over for something like an hour and a half in my head, and writing it out before going to bed just seems utterly tedious. Before I started attending college, such an activity would've seemed...well, fun. That's a bit worrying. I feel like I don't enjoy writing as much as I used to, and the work involved in hammering out anything of even acceptable quality is growing too substantial. There always seems to be something else that needs to be done.

Hah. If Jackie were reading this, she'd probably tell me that it's because I'm not in the moment.

Was there any point to this? Well, I could feed my arrogant side. I could say it's because I'm wondering whether or not pieces of particularly insightful or eloquent work were left unwritten simply because their authors got lazy or possessive. Certainly the likes of Einstein, Thoreau, and Faulker wrote great works, but what more lay unrevealed in the depths of their minds? Could they have kept the greatest treasures of their imaginings to themselves, never to grace the light of day? Does it matter?

But actually, I think it's just because I wanted to write, and to share what I wrote.