The Mind

The mind is a strange place. It makes up stories of things that have not been. It makes up images of pain and hurt. It makes up images of suffering. It puts us in places that we don’t want to be. The mind is strange place that humans spend their entire lives trying to escape. The mind is so powerful even the strongest men, smartest intellectuals, richest Moghuls, and fittest athletes struggle in their mastery of it. It takes your whole life to master your mind. And then some.

The mind is a strange place. It compartmentalizes. It segregates. It conforms. It separates. It merges ideas and pulls them apart and it is in a constant turmoil of making sense of all the stimulation constantly being fed to it. This monkey mind - It remembers. It forgets. It is selective. It is obsessed.

The mind. A prison of sorts. Depression and anxiety are rampant in our society. Millions of dollars are spent on wellness programs and therapy. People commit suicide because of their minds. Because they can’t remember. Because they can’t forget.

 Sitting on a therapist’s couch, eyes closed, legs outstretched, arms folded. “Take a deep breath in and a deep breath out.” says the voice. “Now, tell me what you remember…” the instructions continue. People pour out their souls and sacrifice their hard-earned earnings for someone to listen to them talk about what they remember. Listen to me. To my memories. Listen to how I was hurt. Listen to how I can’t forget. Listen to me before I can’t listen to myself anymore. Listen to me tell you what my mind has made up. What it has selected to remember. What it has conveniently decided to forget.

Is memory also made up? Is it something that wasn’t forgotten? Who are we to say whether it is or not? Who was there at its beginning. Who was there when memory was born? Who was there at the dawn of its existence? No one. No one remembers. No one remembers what memory forgot. No one remembers if memory remembered.

Are our memories real? Are we living in someone else’s memory. Are we a figment of an imagination. A mind of someone else who could remember. We’re a character in the story of that memory. We’re the words being spoken on a plush, velvet sofa. We’re the images created in someone else’s monkey mind. Someone who had a better memory. Someone who didn’t forget. Are their memories real? Are we real? Is this real?

The mind is a strange place.

I but I can’t remember why.

The mind is a strange place.

I am struggling to remember.

The mind is a strange place.

I forget.