My Mind, Metaphorically

My Mind, Metaphorically

The fascination with the human mind.  It seems universal, something that knows no beginning and evades end.

The mind is a vault, a cast-iron container of the innermost intimacies of existence.  It is the sponge of super absorbency, always there to catch and hold the remnants of each and every experience, memory, emotion and impression.  Even the mundane and terrible.  It all is caught there.

It is the ever-faithful companion of sorts; pure fidelity.  It is silent and subtle, never calling attention or selfishly seeking the spotlight.

Thought passes through the mind as a screaming bullet to the center of a target.  Always in motion; never at rest.  To try and count the thoughts?  Impossible.  To control and create purposeful, meaningful thought?  Noble.

Your mind. 

His mind. 

Her mind. 

My grandfather’s mind.

My Mind.

What is it, my mind?  It is a cluttered and clattering mess.  It is bright and reflective, as glitter in the sunlight.  It is desperate, like the grip of a man hanging violently from a ledge.  It is what I love about myself, my mind; and what I love so much in you.  Sometimes it is rigid and locked, like a cold, iron door at Alcatraz.  My mind (and me) is the most happy, most content when it is calm and sound, like the brilliant, blue, cloudless sky on a perfect summer day.

But what is it, The Mind?  It cannot be described the way a house or a book or a tree can.  Some abuse and misuse their minds, that most precious and imperial thing.  Oh, such tragedy.  It is they whom are guilty of the most despicable treason – treason against your own self, you own soul, your Mind.

The mind.

My Mind.

It is mine, and only mine. 

And it is me.