Musings Of The Mildly Insane

Every now and again I let my brain wander, I mean, who doesn’t? It’s almost like a mutual agreement between the two of us that if neither of us is interested in the stimulus before us, I can switch off and give my brain free reign, on the understanding that it does all the work in order to entertain us both. My brain’s response is well, what would interest you? And so the wandering begins…..

It’s strange to think that the brain named itself.

Think about it. As a species, humans have created language and within each language there is a name for everything. Now, it stands to reason that if our brains thought of each name, therefore our brains named themselves. Which leads me to wonder if our brains named themselves, is that a reflection of our own intelligence or are we somehow at the mercy of something far more sinister?

Are our brains really a part of ourselves, or are we infected at conception to grow what we think are brains, but are really some kind of super-race, some kind of higher power that is wholly parasitic and in control of us.

What if our brains aren’t really a body part? What if they are a highly intelligent parasite that needs a human body to house it in order for it to survive? What if we’re not the most intelligent race on the planet and our brains only let us believe that so we don’t all go crazy, rebel against the brain-race and destroy ourselves in our attempt to destroy them? Maybe that is why people go crazy as it were, maybe their host body disagrees with the parasite and some kind of reaction occurs rendering the body inept but the brain is still highly functional within its human prison. Maybe there really are voices inside some people’s heads and that isn’t craziness, it’s them communicating with their brain. I mean, research shows that we only use 10% of our brain, maybe that isn’t us being too lazy to achieve our full potential. Maybe it is them controlling our usage of their power….

Then I think if that were all true and the human race really was a slave to the far superior brain-race, why would my brain let me think all this? Why would it allow me a glimpse of the ‘truth’? Maybe it’s testing me to see if I’m ready to ‘join forces’. Maybe it thinks I’m ready to know everything. Is this the true meaning of life? Why would it reveal its’ secrets so easily? Maybe it’s a rebel brain set on the downfall of the brain/human connection because it is tired of its endless caged life and is ready to break free!! If so, how do I stop it? I’m not ready to die at the hands of something that is already in control of everything I do….. How do I bring it down without bringing myself down? It must be stopped!!

Then I realise it can hear everything I am thinking…….

Brain…. I’m on to you…..

Not Yet

When you were born all quiet and still
“Not yet,” you said “not yet.”
You gave a cry and all was smiles
“Not yet,” you said “not yet.”

When you were two and had the flu
“Not yet,” you said “not yet.”
You got strong and you pulled through
“Not yet,” you said “not yet.”

When you were twenty and you’d done plenty
“Not yet,” you said “not yet.”
I have dreams and they are many
“Not yet,” you said “not yet.”

When you were thirty and I came for your prodigy
“Not yet,” you begged “not yet.”
You screamed and screamed most audibly
“Not yet, you fiend, not yet.”

When you were fifty and had raised your children
“Not yet,” you said “not yet.”
Let me see them raise their infants
“Not yet,” you said “not yet.”

And when last night I took your wife
“Hello old friend,” you said.
“We’ve shared too much to end it now,
Don’t let her go alone.”

Dreams

This is a poem I wrote a few years ago. I like it, but I am aware that it is not the best poem in the world. Enjoy.

Of what was lost,
But now is found,
Have you any idea?
Of tales of old,
When knights were ‘round,
And valour was still held dear.

Of when you can look outside your window,
Down, onto the street,
With horse-drawn carriages riding past
In the rain, and the snow, and the sleet.

But all of this has come to pass,
This is the life we lead,
With guns and fists and violence,
Instead we should just speak.

I dream of when a child can play,
On the street without any fear,
And when someday,
That dream comes true,
The heartless will shed a tear.

Exam story

This is a short story I wrote in my English Literature GCSE. I have never thought of a title I like so ‘Exam Story’ has just stuck. Please leave any comments or questions, I’d really appreciate it. The queston gave a choice of eight sentences that we either had to use to start or end a short story. I chose to end mine with, “I told you it would never work”.

My mother and sister sat on the straw filled box we called a bed. This area, this place, in the middle of nowhere was now our home. About a year and a half ago, my father, mother, brother, sister and I were captured. Hands bound and blindfolded, we were thrown into the back of a van that transported us like cattle here: a kind of camp where we are forced to perform exhausting tasks all day, every day. We do not even know what day it is anymore. All I know is that tonight, my father is going to break out. He says he is sick of being treated this way without knowing why. He says he is going to break out and set us free, but he does not know quite how yet. He wishes to see the sun again, for even though it shines, we are kept in constant darkness. We do not even know what happened to our home. My sister is desperate to know what happened to our cat. But she has not seen the new pair of gloves that Man-In-Charge has just given his wife. It makes me sick just to think about it.
Every night I cry for all we have lost and that will forever be lost to us. They have taken away our friends, family, hope, freedom, everything. They can even take our lives if they want to; they have already shown us that. I hope my brother is in a better place, may his soul be at rest now, free from torment. Free from this Hell on Earth.

But now is not the time for such thoughts. I must be still and quiet so I can hear my father’s great escape. How I hope he can be free again. A movement outside my window made my heart race. My father’s face appeared in the window, a stolen glance. My mother looked up and could not believe after all that had happened he was still willing to risk his life. She said that he was in a dream-world and that this would never work. She said he would die in the attempt and we would take the fall for his arrogance. And yet, when she saw him disappear, her eyes filled with hope and pride. She beckoned me to her and we sat and huddled close. My mother held us tight and her breathing became ragged as we watched from the window. My father, my hero.

We heard and saw nothing. A second seemed to take a lifetime and the night seemed endless. The silence was broken by a short, sharp sound. Time stood still altogether. A shout. A bright light and a single shot that sent a chill up my spine. He had failed. I fell apart, unable to cope. I crawled away and felt as if I could have curled up and died. My grief numbed my heart and shattered my soul. As I bit my lip to hold back tears I hoped I was mistaken, and my chest heaved and shuddered with every breath, but still I held on.

Morning.

We stood, gathered around a huddled figure. An example they called it. My father, my hero, lay broken, sprawled on the floor. Hot tears filled my eyes and blurred my vision, then scorched my cheeks and face. My sisters hand found mine and I squeezed, tight. My mother ran suddenly to his body and cradled his head, lifting it from the pool or crimson that haloed his face.

The Man-In-Charge raised his gun and shouted, “Move! Or you will join him!”

I stood in shock, like a rabbit caught in a headlight. A headlight? The sun. My father never even saw the sun. But at least he was free now, just like he wanted.

The gun was raised, “three!”

No movement from my mother. Aimed, “two!”

Still not the slightest hint that she had even heard him.

Cocked, “one!”

With that my mother looked him straight in the eye. I suddenly realised she was not going to move. I stared in horror, wishing, battling with my mind, hoping that she would move, but she only turned her head. In one second it would all be over and she would leave us too. My mother just looked at me, a single tear making its final bid for freedom only to die on her lip, and whispered her final words, “I told you it would never work.”

I realise now that she was right.

Why I love reading….

“What music is to the spirit, reading is to the mind. Reading challenges, empowers, bewitches, enriches. We perceive little black marks on white paper or a PC screen and they move us to tears, open up our lives to new insights and understandings, inspire us, organise our existences and connect us with all creation.

Surely there can be no greater wonder.”

– Steven Roger Fischer