From knowing to being an amoeba

 A text written from hard mental work goes from A to Z through a series of events that have lived through episodes of torture and progress. Some kind of feeling of completion happens once reaching Z, a sense of logical continuity throughout, at least enough of it, a sense of having reached some desired state from which no backwards movement seem necessary.
 The next day, reading one's work and finding errors in the logic, missing links in some parts of the chain or holes within key nodes, is one of the most terribly humbling experience. No matter the amount of satisfaction and inner harmony reached the day before, a guarantee exist from divine powers that a first draft will need to be changed, about half of it at least. 
 This sense of having found new ideas, or corrections to make, is a sort of time repetition in reverse: it is the assurance that time will surely move forward, it is like another proof for time gravity, pushing us one document version after the next. It is not however an infinite loop. Something happens through rewriting a draft which prompts us to stop. Another sense of completion? It can be. As in mystery movies, no assurance is given. The ways of the divine are inscrutable. Hence writing is both a certitude at first (of having to rewrite a draft) but becomes an invisible ambiguous state with unclear boundaries at some undefined point, in which we typically already think of other topics, other texts to be written, without realising we are forgoing examining the original text another time.
 Until later, sometimes much later, when forced to return to it, the Nth version that seemingly satisfied us enough. At this point, it may be that we get trapped in this intangible ambiguity again, without recognizing it. The trap has been set, forever, and we know not whether to do anything, we are victims of a too well-oiled machinery we helped to compose. In that way, writing is self-entrapment, but the writing was on the first wall, and we had seen it. 

 If any thinking whatsoever is similar to this kind of writing, from A to Z in hard and complex ways, transforming from doubts to satisfaction to self-blame and self-praise and surprise and repeat, until reaching an amoeba, an unknown state of "ok"-ness, if any thinking happens this way, there is something akin to universal laws of physics/dynamics in these dances.