(I found this while searching through my academic files; I assume it was written c. 2003 when I was studying Philosophy at the University of Nottingham. Original just a musing, I’ve amended it slightly and present it now as a poem.)
Philosophy is a word. Philosophy is an activity. Philosophy has no simple location. Philosophy is a puzzle of paradoxes. Philosophy has a heart, though no brain. It has a body, though no head. It is both a tool and a goal. It is the beginning and the end of thought. Philosophy is about debate and discussion, and lonely faded books on old dusty shelves. Philosophy is as much about death as it is about life. It is about truth and meaning. It is about thought and feeling. More often than it is, it should be about love. Philosophy is not about being rich, or about being beautiful, or successful, or famous. However, it is about being. Philosophy raises more questions than it gives answers. It is about the colour grue and things which are not ravens and are not black. There is philosophy and there are philosophies - the One and the Many. Philosophy is about anything and everything and nothing at all. Philosophy is the wonder of children, grown up.