The other evening, my mind was wandering about, as it tends to do, and it started thinking about memories. Memories have been on and off my mind of late, probably a function of my skidding gracefully into decrepitude. I then jumped into the odd question of just how many memories I posses. I quickly turned away from that realizing that memories do not come in quantifiable units, and almost every memory is part of a larger enveloping memory, so let’s not go down that path.
So then I pondered that all those perhaps millions or billions of memories (depending on how you count the uncountable) were all sitting in my adorable little brain. A whole lifetime, whether I remember it or not, is sitting in a damp, electrified ball of pudding.
I mean, think if it. Desire, passion, enmity; the Hobbit and Quantum Mechanics; Plato, Michelangelo, Mother Teresa, and a whole bunch of unsavory types; pirates and popes, all emanating from this wet, grey, lump of something or another and its wiring. How on earth did that happen? The thing even found a way of preserving little pieces of itself via writing, and that was after it learned to talk with its own kind in speech.
The more I think about these strange little buggers, which ultimately is just the brain thinking about itself, the more I admire them—or maybe the more it admires itself.
