A Poem on How Theory Does Not Translate to the Mind
The brain thinks the trick is to keep the body busy
That the body follows the mind
And cathartic experiences are expressed through paintbrushes and paper cut out hearts
It thinks (through logical summation)
That the whole is the sum of its parts
Arm, foot, ear, mind à body
All in one
And when things go wrong, the brain doesn't wish to be somebody else
It simply thinks that sometimes
sometimes
...it'd be better if things were different.
The brain thinks. Its good at that.
And so (fully satisfied with itself)
It passes alerts from neuron to neuron, from synapse to synapse
Because it has an announcement to make:
We will now commence with making a heart.
The body responds. Its good at that.
Scissors in hands, drawings on papers, tongue hanging delicately out the side of the mouth.
Endless hours of painstaking research on to just which heart to make
And carefully, gently
Like a baby, it all comes out
"Today is February 17th. There are 82 more days" the brain says
And the body responds: there are 82 hearts (research and popular opinion has shown that taking them out one by one each day signals to brain that things are getting smaller).
Its getting smaller.
Risk is getting smaller.
Synapse to synapse, neuron to neuron, we begin typing a poem, counting calendars, making beds, watching TV.
The brain knows the body can be numbed.
Arm, foot, ear, mind
But the mind is not so easily fooled.
Some think it's the heart that knows, but its really the mind.
The mind understands that 82 doesn't go away with paper hearts but actually with the passing of time
And time does not always feel particularly friendly.
Sometimes, the mind thinks the trick is to plan and imagine
And then it also knows that there is no trick
The mind knows this is a poem and it is not cathartic.
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