Do my ideas flutter or do they fly? 

Do they follow me into the washroom or do they wait for me at the door? Are some slower than others at floating through the wind and try helping their friends along the way? Are they friends? Do they ever fancy one another or grow romantic? I have questions for and about my ideas, but to whom do I ask them? Surely if I stand and attempt to formulate a question for them in the shower, there'll just be more outside waiting for me than I walked in with? There's no ticket or queue to query for my ideas to stop me from making more. Surely my ideas follow me around. They must. But I desire to be confident in knowing whether they fly or flutter. Or do only some fly while others do indeed flutter? They all must be omniscient, too, they just choose not to tell me so. I do believe that. But how would I know for sure? We don't communicate, my ideas and I. I only cut and sever and sculpt and mould. Alter and adapt. Is that fair? Is that fair for my ideas? I wish for them to have autonomy, I do so, truly. I wish for them to choose to follow me where they wish. I desire for my ideas to decide whether they fly or flutter upon wings of sky or glitter. Think of what the world would be, what magnanimous, manicured, magnificence the world would materialize if only I could communicate with my ideas. If, and only if I could just surmise whether they fly or flutter. If they choose to wait for me outside doors or do indeed follow me through. If my sweet ideas are fluffy or flat. Tell me, my children, are you flat? I grow tired of asking these questions as blatant rhetoric; I ask you directly now, are you flat? I refuse the prospect that you, my fleeting mental mannerisms, are flat. I refute it rigorously, I rebuke it righteously that you, my darlings, would give me an accurate reflection upon your surface. I wish I could ask you that if ever I were granted the chance to witness you all as you flutter or fly that you distort my face in your minimal reflection. Grant me zero retention, please. But oh, I wonder, does this impose on your autonomy? I simply wish for you to have depth, is all, as I believe you all do. I believe that, wholeheartedly, that you would incur a wondrous world of make-believe and nigh-endless possibilities upon someone if they were to do so little as to dip a pinky into your substance. But how, I beg, would I or someone else reach you? Tell me, please, relent your secrets but do not release your autonomy to grant me my answers. I harbour so many questions for you and your kind. Are you colourful and sprightly, or dim and spiteful or do you get to choose depending on your current substance? When I think thoughts and ideas of plentiful journeys and experiences to take my creations on, do you take on their respective colours and act in their appropriate ways? But if I were to think back upon the turbulent and destructive ideas I had years past, were you spiteful and dim? Did you wield mystical, incorporeal weapons and would wage war upon the sweeter of my ideas? I hope not, but sometimes it would feel like that. Oh, is that how we speak to one another, I wonder? I cannot picture powdered wigs and high, wooden chairs that designate status and import. Not nearly as vivid as I can picture my ideas fighting one another for the spot of prevalence in my metaphysical periphery. I do feel the effects of that war. Each impact affects my psyche; temporarily snuffing the luminosity of the effortlessly deep and entrenched ideas to make way for the dim and spiteful. Now that I think about it, I believe I know how those ideas wander their world. I believe those neither flutter nor fly. Those ideas bounce along the tops of the colourful and sprightly, clipping their wings of glitter or sky, bringing them ever closer to an aura of utter forgetfulness. But how do they enter through the washroom door? I have certainly felt the effects of their war, no matter which room is beyond which door. Do they bounce atop your precious wings and use the clippings to squeeze through the gaps? I suppose I must also ask the question, that do I contribute to their dimness and spitefulness by not addressing them directly? So far I have only thought of them as they, and have been addressing you, my children of colour and of a sprightly disposition. Maybe I am an aspect in their quality and indirect quantity. Would that then make them-- I'm sorry, you, consider me an inadvertent asset in the process of snuffing the sprightly and colourful? If this is how we loosely communicate, my ideas, my children, that may or may not be fluttering and flying upon wings of glitter and sky. If we communicate by how I address your friends or maybe romantic partners and which ideas I add or detract, then I apologize, my sweets. You are all truly a part of me, and perhaps I have gone far too long ignoring, you, my dim and spiteful when all you were attempting to do was vie for my affection and attention when all I was attempting to do was the same, while ignoring you in the process. I have been trying to ignore you, rebuke you, and in fact, repent for some and remove others. When from the start I should have also wished to communicate and ask you the same questions I ask the sprightly and colourful. I believe you are just as important as the ones you hop on. So I ask you, now: my children, do you also follow me into the washroom or do you wait for me outside and watch as I create and designate more of you? Are you also slower or quicker than others as you float along with the gentle winds? Do you also help your friends when they fall behind? Are you friends? Do you ever grow romantic with one another? Are you flat, please do not tell me you have been flat all these years? I believe in my heart that even in my ignorance and denial you would also incur such wondrous worlds of make-believe and nigh-endless possibilities if someone were to ever simply dip a pinky into one of you. I must also then ask you, my dear ideas, what colours do you choose to exhume and exist as? Do you now bumble along quite as sprightly and colourfully as the rest of your companions, or do you now, perhaps, my ideas: do you flutter or fly?