Chaos
I'd like for you to be in my mind during Philosophy classes, when every sentence opens up a door to a hundred different ideas: furious, seething threads of related thoughts demanding to be pursued despite my most concerted efforts to concentrate on the lecture. My mind's so disgustingly adept at barging off on tangents that I fear for my grades, and my sanity. In a lecture on epistemic justification, I sit with glazed eyes, trying desperately to reel in frenzied fistfuls of all these extraneous roiling thoughts and LISTEN TO THE LECTURE DAMMIT, and in the end, all I manage is a slow blink, and a phrase that I carefully write down on my otherwise blank lecture pad: cognitive spaghetti.
I'd like for you to be in my mind at that climactic moment when all these tangled thoughts start to fight each other, and then! you shall know true chaos.
That, or Leicester Square last Sunday. A heaving hotbed of celebrations, breath, sweat, firecracker smoke, congealing in the thick viscous air. Crushed on tiptoes, watching lion dances hemmed in by furiously festive crowds. Surge. Roil. Turmoil. Frenzy, anarchy.
But ah, chaos can be so beautiful.