The Art of the Broken Mind

It would be presumptuous to think we can live life in the most safest manner always. There is always a sprained ankle. A jammed finger. A dangerous and painful haircut. It would be presumptuous to think we, and every part of our body is working in complete perfect order.

It would be wrong, too.

We use our minds constantly. More than our fingers, more than legs. Our eyes are closed much of the night. Our ears only react, never initiate. Our lungs work as long, but all they're really doing is getting bigger then smaller, then again.

I want to see a lung try to do a 3 point turn in a narrow street.

Our minds never stop working. They never stop gathering information. And despite some of our best attempts, they never stop attempting to understand what they've gotten.

The wheels in our heads never stop turning. Even when we are asleep. Especially when we are asleep. Then the mind can truly work on great things like undoing the chaos in our memories and giving us wet dreams.

It would be presumptuous to think our minds never break down. That they never buckle under the strain of heavy living.

They buckle everytime you can't get an answer right on Jeopardy.

We don't like breaking or buckling minds.

People tend to call them things like "disorders".

Maybe this is true.

Disorder in the mind is the cause, or maybe effect of hard living and thinking.

If we could, we would live in a grassy plain and contemplate clouds and frog races.

But we don't so we can't because we live Now.

With tainted, torn, trashed mental bins.

All of us, leaking brain juice and having gaps and crevices in our heads.

Our thoughts are not completely orderly.

We aren't the sanest creatures we believe us to be.

So what of it? We sprain ankles, we jam fingers, we breathe in cigarette smoke and damage lungs. And so we have damaged brains as well. What of it?

It's this disorder which we have adapted ourselves too. It is this chaotic madness we dance upon to keep us going to the bathroom every morning instead of wetting our beds. This madness that gives us our dreams. This chaos that gives us enlightenment. We throw our thoughts onto the white wall, hoping to make some sense of the design. And we do it again. And again.

Break your mind. Live hard. Think hard. Maybe you'll find that elusive peace amidst the chaos of every thought you've ever had. There is an eye to every storm.


By Don Bernal

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