In real life, I put my head in a machine. How is this brain different from all other brains?
My transient, shifting butterfly-shape of a landscape in its final stage – possibly shrinking,
almost definitely frayed — but already on the downswing. Wired into the surface, the metallic
clatter of pulsing attachments, steel stimulation, determines levels of insult. Pay the pons toll,
cross from midline to stem, and report back news from the far away fore. No more secrets.
No more hiding. I am the system, and the system is me. Only the malignant promises of
incidental findings: old scars abutting new formations; ripe berry cysts that might burst and
bleed black, red, and blue all over the floor; dotted maps of mild white matter pointing wildly
in different directions; little ruptures revealed in the deepest recesses below the grey surface.
How do all other brains survive the interminable wait for silence? The incessant clacking,
rattling, droning disappears me one click at a time in this heavy metal world within the world
within the world. I already know what is already happening: the vanishing of years and years
and years of carefully curated thoughts, collected ideas, vivid visions. Does the brain know
what is within it is real? I thought I was just getting started and already the decline.