September 21st, 2017

A method to madness.

Mind is a wonderful thing. It can find such interesting subjects in seemingly mundane items. Take mine, for instance, and its habit of wandering off on tangents which, on merit, can scarcely be called interesting. Brain, mine at least, defines its own yardstick for measuring merit. This can be the only explanation which does not imply an inherent inability to differentiate between meaningful and completely inane tangents. One eschews incriminating one’s own mind. Even for one given to jumping from pitfall to pitfall in blind pursuit of the heart’s agenda – and yes, I do flatter myself here – it is important to remember that the brain is a devious mass of billions of demonic neurons all abuzz with negative energy, and that this mass is inseparable from one – at least under the ideal or bordering-on-ideal circumstances. It just does not do to rub it the wrong way. Most centers of negative energy do not take well to having their inherent abilities called into question, and since vindictive traits come naturally to all villains, who wants to incriminate a villain who takes up the penthouse in one’s anatomy?

All of this, of course, brings me back to my original assertion that mind is a wonderful thing. Courtesy mine, unlike millions and millions, I am never intrigued by the random and ridiculous nature of dreams. Fact is, I wonder at people, with pity and envy in equal measure, who are constantly stumped by the apparent lack of logic and rationale in how their dreams progress. Why pity, you ask? Well, look at it this way, how dull must their lives be if their brains tick along from one point to another with any deference to rationale? Envy, you wonder? Well, at least these people only have to lament an apparent lack of rationale when they sink into slumber, unlike yours truly, who is forever catching at straws – awake or asleep. I am surprised I do not hear the echo of my brain’s evil laugh as it amuses itself seeing me all at sea, bobbing up and down in the wilderness of madness.

For what is it all, if not madness? This constant and continuous struggle to find meaning in the endless journey of my mind? It stops nowhere. It wanders off in new directions all on its own without knowing or bothering to find out if the road ahead leads to any destination at all. And then, along the way, a broken signboard catches its fancy and it just stand there, for hours at end, staring at it blankly. How does one explain it’s complete lack of interest in such signboards when it stands there contemplating them with singular focus? More importantly, how does one explain its deep interest in every passing tree, every little plant, every patch of green when it never really stops to look at them at all?

There is a method to this madness, even I can see it. My heart certainly can. The heart. Now, there is a good companion. Or is it? It lets me down every few paces when it skips a beat or gets completely engrossed in the stars and the moon and the sun. But it means well, and it sees things I do not. If only it could learn to share what it saw, we would probably be able to rein the mind in. But the heart has this habit of ruminating for years and years on what it sees, sometimes for centuries it seems, and then one fine moment, for no apparent reason, it just blurts out an astonishingly vivid description of what it had seen ages ago. At times like these, you just look at it while struggling to get various parts of your facial features to regain their closing function. At length, you succeed in pulling the jaw back up, you try and scrunch the flaring nostrils into some mode of normalcy, and you narrow your eyes into what you hope will complete a menacing look, but then you are dismayed when you hear the heart’s roaring laughter. It has seen your jaw dropping, your nostrils doing a dragon, and your eyes stretching as wide as they can, and then it has seen your comical attempt at feigning fury, and it finds you funny. Funny is good for the heart, pun intended, but bad for establishing any semblance of authority. You give in, and you follow the heart into your next disaster.

If you ask me, I think the mind and the heart are in cahoots with each other. They have the same agenda. And it is not me. Or mine. I think they just take turns amusing themselves at my expense. Indeed, I have a sneaking suspicion that those signboards, which the mind stops every now and then to look at for no apparent reason, are normally the ones the heart decides to follow eventually. There is a method to this madness.

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