Tuesday, February 16, 2010

The Curse of an Active Mind

During an interview the other day, I was told I must spend a lot of time thinking about how this thing or that thing affected this other thing or some such. My response was a bit of a stubble-bum ramble filled with a few ums and hums. Frankly, I wasn’t quite prepared for that particular query and it threw me for a rather long loop.

The loop-inducing question wasn’t all that bizarre or off-putting; rather, it was thought-provoking. (Here goes, more time thinking.) Believe it or not, it seems strange to me to consider that someone might not spend time thinking. What else happens betwixt and between synapses all day? Is it possible for them to pause? I can’t seem to do anything else with mine, short of pharmaceutical- or liquor-induced alterations. As those just seem to cause a synaptic slurry, not so much a neuronal numbing, and as I have this little issue with chronic cluster headaches that don’t seem to cotton to such interventions, I’m left with the persistent zap and swoosh of nerve ending electricity sparking out chemical trans-synaptic messages. Who am I not to listen to their call?

Thus, I suppose, the allure of meditation. At least in the midst of my mental mantra murmurings, there seems to be a momentary quell amidst the constant onslaught of what-ifs and why-nots.

Knowing that most folks spend little to no time of a day pursuing transcendental mental inhibition, what, then do people do all day with their excess neurotransmitter processes? Is there some secret I’ve missed that helps control the above-the-brainpan banter? Or is it just that through repetitive squelching via you-can’t and you-shouldn’t socialization, people have been trained to tune out their why-couldn’ts?

Don’t get me wrong; overall, I’m happy to have my mental monologue. I like seeing this thing that reminds me of that thing and that maybe an unbefore seen intersection which might bring about some other thing. Sometimes those connections really “hit.” Granted, sometimes, they most definitely do not. Regardless of my average brain’s batting average, I really enjoy when I put the wood on the ball and knock one into distant center, over the wall and into the stands.

Granted, again, hitting such cerebral homers doesn’t happen all that often; I’m no Babe Ruth of Brainstorms. Still, the serotoninal rush of those moments is better than any Big Pharma concoction I’ve ever encountered. Its addictive powers are heroin-esque. The endorphin release which follows, that “ahhh” satisfaction you feel when you know you done thunk something new that done did something good, is exquisite.

Therein lies my rub. Just like any self-respecting, certified junkie, I want more. More hits, more often, more bigger. And, the only way to get more is to think more. Which leads me right back to my original, powerless position: how can I not heed their call?”

I guess I really don’t mind too much. I just wish their call could be quieted more readily; even committed addicts need the occasional breather.

Wonder what’s on TV?
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