My blood relatives all have different minds. My father’s mind is a computer – it makes sense of what it can in a neat and linear fashion. My mothers mind is like that of an old clock. The gears and everything work just fine, but the slightest bump the wrong way and it panics. My sister’s mind is innocent. She doesn’t understand when and why things go wrong. When they do, her peace of mind cracks like a child wanting candy at a supermarket. But my mind, my mind is a strange labyrinth twisting and bending like the branches off an old and knotted tree.
I try to contain the thoughts that come from exploring its depths. It’s a blessing and a curse, the things I discover. Sometimes I rejoice as if I’d found pure gold, while other times I wish I had let it remain buried. These weird thoughts, these improbable realities, eat away at my consciousness like a small river running through a giant canyon. My mind is a plastic bag in the wind, being thrown left and right by the force of the wind. I’m certain one day I will be able to make sense of all these whims, but I have to deal with their mysteries until then.