Sort Of

 

The same mind that sorts the trash writes poetry.

Viewpoints compete:  either the brain has hidden files,

memories stashed away "in a safe place" but just for

that reason something at least moderately important

seems to be missing, or lost, definitely here god-damn-it

but not where I thought I put it last.

Last what?  Last week?  Last year?  Last lifetime?

 

So we search within for these things,

The explanations for why we are the way we are,

why we feel the way we feel, when we even feel

that maybe we should not feel the way we feel,

or maybe we should feel more like the way we feel.

Or, we really should feel good, or bad, or indifferent

about something that (may have) happened long ago,

or recently. 

        (Define "recent."  Is that relative?)

 

 

And then there is the self, how we wish it were

more like something else. 

        More brave.

        More happy.

        More successful.

There is the issue!  What is success?

And on and on.

 

Secondly … it could be entirely different.

Our minds are all superior story tellers.

Just like our eyes will fill in an incomplete image,

for example, say an automobile. 

If it is missing something, like headlights,

our brains fill them in, create the image that our

memories tell us should be there.

Like when we are asked "What color was his jacket?"

We say "Brown," but he was not wearing a jacket.

In this version, all of our explanations are stories

made up by our author-brain.

This would be an extreme version, or perfect version,

Of the ancient spiritual philosopher telling us

that we create our own reality.

So yeah, it works, even for math and science,

but the universe is not composed of items we find on the

almost infinite shelves in our old thought department store.

The universe does not become clear, not puzzle pieces found

or filling in the spaces with idea inventory or connecting

the dots.

Our brains CREATE the puzzle and the pieces, create the spaces

and the fillings, the dots and the connections.

Because reality, all of its big and small divisions,

micro and macro and standard,

is a story and a story with stories within the stories,

because that is what we do.

That's my story and I am sticking to it.

What's your story?

Your story doesn't hold up.

Your story is yours.  Is it yours? 

The story of the universe.  Is that a story?

The story of you.  The story of your brain.

That could be what reality is.

Something within.

Look at what happens when the memories go away.

When the cells that contain and keep them

Like gold bars in a safe. 

        Like berries in a freezer.

They melt away, flow, evaporate.

The person is gone.

The story is gone.

We cannot know what we have forgotten.

It's all gone.  There is no story.

And if there is no story, there is nothing.

No explanation and maybe even no question.

No one to even ask "What?"

No one to share this poem,

like imagine what it would look like

if the code were unknown to the reader,

with the story of reading misplaced

and the shelf searcher has quit.

 

                       John S. Medeiros, July 2019