Daily – Sept0314

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.



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