Composting?

The practice of taking raw ,cast-off and mulched organic material, putting it in a shady spot and letting micro-organisms break it down into one great big pile of useful stuff where only garbage existed before. I've read that you must mulch, moisten and move. Cut up the garbage into "digestable" pieces. Not a whole branch, but chopped up bits of branch, for example.
There is supposed to be browns (wood, branches, twigs) and greens (grass, veggie leftovers, leaves) and water.
The water helps with digestion. And then there is the moving. Taking what is on the outside, scooping it up and adding it to the center, letting the center fall to the outskirts.

Why exactly did thinking about this process today try to become a metaphor for my mind? I don't know. Now that I'm writing about it, I see almost no similarities. In fact, I can't think of ANY similarities.

My thoughts . . . I do just let them pile up like garbage; most of them I even throw away without examining them for their complete worth. And maybe if I kept them in a concentrated area - a concious effort to keep them from being strewn willy-nilly about my backyard of a brain - perhaps they could . . . uh . . . feed off eachother and grow together to form something useful?

Nah. Because the purpose of compost isn't just to have good compost. You can't eat compost. It doesn't even smell good. it has no flowers. It isn't pretty and it doesn't recieve accolades from passersby . . . It's purpose is solely to nurture something else to grow. You compost to not waste organic matter and then to add nutrient elsewhere when it can no longer contribute in it's original form.

That is nothing like thoughts. Or writing. Or my brain.

I guess this goes to show that you can't make a metaphor out of a compost pile. And yet, I tried.



* I've now re-read this post 3 times. I'm not entirely sure I've failed at the metaphor entirely. . . or succeeded entirely . . . or just gone a little mad. At least I typed it very quickly. And that I can be pleased with.