Sisyphean narcissism.

 If I don't manage to say this, it doesn't exist. This is a discipline I need to ingrain on myself if I'm ever to salvage my thoughts from the total obscurity of my own thinking. The monologue I experience as my mind cogitates and digests the ideas to which I've become accustomed means nothing if there's no way to get this stuff untangled from the momentary encounter and stored in a comprehensible medium. There are countless times I've surprised myself with an idea, or a clever way to phrase an old idea, and been once again reminded of the reason why these times are countless. I never record them, never make them count. It would be absolutely fitting to judge my intellectual musing to be nothing more than trite mental masturbation. I find a conceptual space where I can comfortably languish, tease my notions and sensibilities with speculation and thought experimentation, until ultimately I coax out the 'aha' moment, the minor epiphany that seems to have been the whole purpose of my auto-analytic fixation.

The process of coping with the effervescence of my favorite ideas naturally lends to a desire to preserve them. Simply thinking these thoughts as loudly as I can and hoping they will reverberate in a lasting memory probably does serve to break in the path, reinforcing my ability to find my way back here again. However, it does not do much to package the idea in any sort of tidy, organized fashion which can be easily externalized. In fact, training myself to consciously hold on to my prized meditation all at once might easily be counterproductive to the act of writing it down. In its most unwieldy configuration, the concept I'm trying to record has been given the illusion of some kind of atomic unity, a fully amalgamated whole idea with no clear beginning, middle, or end. Of course there had to be an orderly progression of cognitive events before there could possibly come a climactic conclusion, and I'd expect any effective description of the whole of the idea would necessarily include a proper representation of this progression.

The twisted magnitude of my egocentric introversion is clearly evidenced in the very existence of the text I've written thus far. I sat down with the intent of describing an idea I had, but as soon as I transitioned from having the idea to writing it down, my attention got mired in an unnecessarily verbose narrative encapsulating the experience of having an idea and struggling to write about it. It would seem that my self-consciousness has gotten entirely in the way of actually coming to the damned point.