To Bear the Human Mind

I write upon a blank computer screen, producing words for the mere practice, the mere art of them making an appearance that is in shape constant, bland really, but in experience, profound. For this I read the prose of seemingly educated authors. A text that placed next to any other text, is more or less identical, but contains experience that is so versatile; sometimes classified as punishment, yet in another space, pleasure. I dive in, to an extent, to escape my life, and then to a greater degree, to gain perspective on my life that wasn’t present before. Yet, I don’t think I am gaining perspective. For if I was, then I could gain it, and at the snap of my fingers, change it for my own. No, I am not gaining perspective, I am gaining language. I am rephrasing that which already exists in my mind; I am placing new words to the never ending turmoil, and I am attempting at making it, at least momentarily, pretty to look at.

I read and I write in order to extract thoughts that are otherwise stuck, deep in the trenches of a mind that I did not choose, but have been damned to live with. Are we all not victims of the same battle? Fighting off thoughts that stand to hold us in place, while desperately creating thoughts that justify moving forward? I apologize for speaking for the masses, I think my language and placing me within we, is simply just another method to calm my own mind, or the “I” that battles my mind (and simultaneously arises from it). I am looking to provide it with some company, but from here, will attempt to speak only for the I which is me. It’s a bit lonely, tragic almost, to speak in light of one, separated from humanity. But humanity has grown to take offense so quickly upon the utilization of the wrong pronoun, the wrong phrase. Ah, for any of those that doubt the power of language, go run the street yelling, “_______” (insert offensive word here) and report back on the power of one word. But I have lost my purpose, let me come back to the mind, my mind, not yours.

My mind. I risk sounding conceited, cocky, in believing, and stating, that my mind is intelligent. It is full of rationale, of calculated expertise, of ability to mend and mold, regurgitate, as well as truly understand, it can feel, it can produce feelings for others, it is, really, a work of art. I find it unique, something about my mind is not like the mind of others, yet, don’t we all hold this experience (I said I would attempt…)? And as intelligent as my mind is, it is also, straight to the point here, a piece of shit. Its calculations work to keep it safe, to keep it comfortable, which ultimately leads me to question my worth, I surely cannot be here solely for comfort? What is this comfort, if not pure boredom. A day to day that is so mundane, so ordinary, so, useless. My mind has created me to be a mere vehicle for the exchange of atmospheric gases (ah, but my social presentation is so exciting!). Yet I know, deep down in my bones (maybe that’s where the magic happens?) that my presence is not a mere transfer of oxygen and carbon dioxide. I know, there is something within me that if carefully arranged in presentation, is beyond anything that I am in my mind. Do I ask my bones though, what this thing, that I am, is? Oh no, no, I ask my mind. I form the question in my mind, and then ask my mind for its answer.

I ask my mind to answer a question, which originated from that same intelligent, yet piece of shit place. It’s insanity. So what happens in my mind, as I search for the words, to carefully phrase a question, that I will in turn, ask my mind to answer? In long form, a lot, a lot happens, in short, absolutely nothing. And that, that is the problem! I do not find myself in terrible situations, consequences for such unreasonable actions that I do not see a way out. No, my mind calculates to such a degree that I never arrive to a detrimental end, but in consequence, I reach no successful end either. Though often, I am standing in success, blind to my accomplishments, bearing a mind that closes its eyes to any light I have produced. I struggle, to produce a light bright enough, that its presence can be seen, as a bright orange light, behind closed lids. My mind won’t be able to deny its existence, if it refuses to acknowledge the seeping of light through the cracks, it will hear its thunderous scream. The elated voice of me, screaming for joy to a mind that continually worked to muffle any sound that threatened its safe being. I fight for the day that this moment arrives, when I know it is there, and I can breathe, for once, I can breathe easy. Is this the day that you recognize, that you could die, right here, right now, knowing that you lived? Is my life a mere anticipation of the day that I can accept death? A part of me wishes to accept this statement for an infallible truth. Live to the death, and then every halting thought my mind produces is nothing but white noise that helps me fall asleep night after night, as I trek along risk filled days and present driven futures.

But my mind, does not let such a thought penetrate its being. If the thought makes it passed the moat, it is quickly stopped by the guardsman. It if makes it passed the guardsman, the key does not fit in the lock. If the key has found its other half, and the door opens, the mind creates another obstacle to keep its owner from freedom of its detrimental thoughts. And so the bastard sits there in his study, a grimace on his face, offering all the reasons in the world, all of the justifications to ever infiltrate mankind, to keep its owner still. To keep its owner calculating the answers to the questions such as, “What do I want?” and, “What am I here for?” Questions we answer by the same process that produced them in the first place.

I sit here, with both questions rising and sinking in my mind, for days on end, from years of habitual thinking. It seems the more that I ponder, the further the answer drifts from my grasp. I worry of the eureka phenomena, as not being a single occurrence, but a never ending procedure, an order of business created by nature in a time not consistent with ours. I worry that as I answer one of the questions, or say, I am fortunate to answer both, that a new question will arise, I will know what I am here for, and then proceed to wonder, “But, what am I really here for?!” To bear the human mind is to bear a curse and a blessing, and to be a mixture of both is to sit still, blessed to survive, but unsatisfied with what that looks like.