I wish my brain could write me its biography. I suppose that’s what imagination is, in part. And dreams. Except my brain is made of cells, and I can only seem to understand human. So it must speak my gross organismal idiom. I must seem huge and clunky to my brain. Requiring so much movement to release something as basic as a thought. And going anywhere? My god! Those heavy, hungry organs. Those hard, groaning, foul-smelling machines.
The brain can fly, effortlessly, while floating motionless in its penthouse coffin; and what a view! Thoughts are the white noise of a brain’s existence and no one has to move a muscle. They just radiate around; coalesce, disengage, so much weather. Cells lay atop and around each other, partners and friends never more than a membrane away. I bet they look out at us and imagine that we must be cold.