Thoughts over my thoughts

I like onions, in a way. I hate their flavor, it hurts my tongue. I hate to have them close by, they make my cry (I only like to cry about serious stuff; a vegetable that makes people cry can't be that serious).

It's a nice machinery, nature; it gives the things we don't like pleasant features. I like onions in a funny, particular, and metaphorical way: I like their layers.

While I was thinking today, I started thinking about my thoughts, which inexorably led me to think about onions (because of the layers, I thought). Do thoughts have, as onions do, a final layer?

I don't know if onions can think, but if they can, it must be sad for them when they realize that they have a final, outermost layer. (It must be even sadder when people cut their layers (onions' or their own), so sad, in fact, that it can make people cry (and onions too)).