What if the billions of neurons were understandable in some way, definable in moments of firing action, isn’t it wonder how these functional stimuli muddle like constellated veins glued in glia, lipid,
Molten like emotion in clay – preserved placidly in the limbic system – if there were a way to re-embody memories, traverse the convoluted travails – gyri and sulci, a sanctum temple relaying the consequences of antecedents – millivolts of electrical charges, impulses, chemical – spirit, sparkling light, intangible incandescence inscribed in the mind.
The mind, as a seat of fluttering butterflies, thoughts tumbling in liquids half-blossom, unfinished – vertigo of yearning, suturing, marinating grind,
What if these thoughts could be given a cushioned rest, a sweet perfumed taste – an ending, a beginning – could we bare them open, touch their wandering skins, the autumn gossammer wings alighting to fire, could we adorn them in domes of dreams, with starlight and spring briar.
What of these little cells plotting places, spanning the brain- grasping marrow, proteins – a new awakening – these membranes, small rooms filled with hovering honeybees – multiplying mitochondria, genes, rahasya, allowing the body to teeter between such knowing and unknowing.