My Thoughts On This. (As Written By Fingers Whose Pet Brain Is In Possession Of A Splitting Headache.)
Almost titled: I Don’t Know About You, But I For One Am A Shack Full Of Clustered Mementos Owned By A Crazy Hag.
I love such questions, (the quest of eons) but I’m not up for connecting the dots today, though I was before, I think, at some point. please somebody slice out my brain and serve it to a starving hippopotamus!
It’s theoretically nice to exist in the simplicity of a body during times when thinking staggers sluggishly through a hoard of precious but useless collectables. I think existence is both separable and inseparable like that - you can define certain aspects, but they’re all part of a whole; it’s chaotic, messy. artistic. not necessarily relatable. jumping from thought to thought willy-nilly with no apparent cohesion. (Of course if you were a paraplegic you might feel differently about the challenge question. Not the whole body are we? being as you can lose a lot of body parts but still be yourself...) In fact, a place can get so messy that it can control the personality of it’s inhabitant(s), making us feel exalted or cranky (usually the latter.) Thoughts clutter here, I hoard them, and though I know I should get rid of the accumulated junk, I fear that I will lose some kind of hidden treasure (which I would know if I were thinking objectively that I couldn't really possess unless a trash-pixie snuck in and left some loot under the musty book-pile or in back of the trinket draw)- You know how sometimes, when you’re sorting through the mess of antique ideosyncracies, you wind up drudging mercilessly through your thoughts and memories, not making any progress at being more orderly, trying to be ruthlessly objective about tossing them out, then stopping on one that used to be warm and sparkly, realising it’s old now, and rusty, that you didn’t take care of it as you should, and you start shuddering out tears in a very chest-achy way, but not exactly because you’re sad about it, more because you’re inexpressibly grateful to have been so happy once?
Enough about that.
To finally pick apart a smidgen of answeringness from the debris:
The brain is the inhabitant of the hoarder’s shack. it’d likely get a bit upset if you told it that it had to get rid of it’s stuff, almost like trying to chop off a body part; telling the ego that it can no longer interact with an irreplaceable facet of it’s existence. But it is impossible to know how much the inhabitant is responsible for the dwelling, and how much the dwelling is responsible for the inhabitant. And which one owns the other. Though it’s fun to think about. In more scientific terms the brain is technically part of the body isn’t it? Which is to say I’m not a scientist and that I’ve still got this godforsaken rotten horrid headache!! The brain doesn’t seem so distinguishable from the body right now, being as it’s stubbed it’s proverbial toe. One thing is for sure: The brain is definitely the one responsible for this whole damnably nonsensical non-spell-checked gibberish nightmare of a rampling (-meant rambling but keeping it; rampling!!) mess, and it’s also the only one who can tidy up this dank filth. I’m fed up with it! it’s dusty! I can’t breathe in here! where’d I get all this junk anyway?! I think something might be moldy... is that a dead roach in the corner?... *mind chatters on indefinitely*...(great new word that: Rampling. I’d define it as getting amped up on rambling when you’re in no shape to form coherent thoughts. ... if anyone’s still reading, sorry for rampling.)
The body, on the other hand, is what one uses to fling open the hovel’s door and step out into the fresh air.