Why do some say a mind is a machine?
My mind surpasses all machines; it runs five different programs at a time:
Every time a new object enters my field of view, another process opens.
Sometimes I wonder if I will finally bluescreen and let everything just fall silent for once,
peaceful for the first time since I learned how to read,
tranquil for the first time since I learned how to speak and understand.
But new processes just keep popping up:
And sometimes my brain experiences slight overload,
but that only results in some processes being pushed to the side.
(I realized two days late that I should have remembered to buy a present for Liz's birthday.
Now she's pissed and won't talk to me.)
I forgot her because I was running the program
and gathering factoids focused on
whether they pop when you let them go or if they float into space never to be seen again
except by satellites.
I wish my mind was a machine -
every process and component given a single purpose,
superfluous processes terminated to reallocate memory,
each program assigned a distinct priority level,
and calendar alerts created for important events.
Then maybe I would have remembered that I had a Chemistry test first period.
Instead I remembered why the Incas sacrificed virgins.
If my brain operated with a circuitboard and silicon wiring, instead of a web of synapses and neurotransmitters,
I wouldn't have the uplifting experience of realizing that
Hey, today is a Friday and I don't have homework tonight!
I wouldn't notice the sleek lines of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala and scream,
What a beauty! I wish I had the money to buy you and mend you, Baby.
The moon in the sky would be assigned a phase and a position,
and I would never marvel at the shining clarity of the Sea of Tranquility every night.
The green of the Appalachian Mountains would be archived as proof that it does rain more in North Carolina,
instead of revealing that I'd found a place that truly embodied the phrase "God's green Earth."
My mind is not, will never be a machine.
I think too much,
deliberate on too many useless topics,
to degrade the inner workings of my brain to such a mechanistic level.
My mind is human as I am human,
and I could not be more satisfied in its performance.
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