I'd be lying if I told you that I've never tried to picture every tiny, unnecessary detail or thought that somehow winded up in my mind as a Picasso masterpiece. I try to separate my thoughts into those dull business compartments, and they're set up inefficiently. There's a compartment that illuminates fluorescent lights, and I guess people would refer to this compartment as "priorities" - I'd say this compartment was the CEO to my mind. Every action, every word, and every step is immediately referred to or consulted by that compartment, slightly dominating, I know. We've got other inferior compartments such as body image, ambitions, and innovation, I'd say body image was slightly a higher rank than the rest. It's ridiculous of me, of course, to even consider something so insignificant as it's own compartment, but this is just another component that contributed to the chaotic mess of my mental state. I'm not shallow, I don't believe that your opinions of yourself reflect anything about who I sincerely am, but what options do you have when there's bankruptcy storming through your compartment?
"What pollutes our environment, girls and boys?" asked the seventh grade science teacher. "Smoke!" "Gas! "Vehicles!" "Industries, duh!" "This is easy: littering!" The teacher laughs, and suddenly becomes stern "What pollutes your mental environment?" The class goes blank, no one's sure what's going on - okay, I'll stop this metaphor of mental environmentalism now, it's starting to sound like a horror story. "Standards!" "Technology" "Expectations!" would be a good answer for that teacher, though. I, half heartedly, will admit that I am the cause of the chaos going on in my gray matter; I opened the window during a storm of pollution. Do I feel guilty about it? No, why would I? Am I terrified? Yes, obviously. Have I tried closing the window? Numerous times. We've all tried. We all want to keep the pollution out as soon as we realize it's in; we read books, we write in our little black notebooks, we run, we try to do some Jane Fonda yoga, and sometimes we try to be children again, but that's my last resort. We've tried, but have we succeeded? Maybe, but the window is faulty. Don't worry though, the older that window gets, the sturdier it becomes. The Strange Case of Wellington Window - lame.
My mind is polluted. It's as simple as that. This is one of those miraculous Miranda Hobbes discovery that leave you in shock for about three weeks before it's completely processed into your mind. I have a slight addiction to my cellphone, but I could beat it. Do I? No, I'm irrevocably obsessed with the entire concept of the web and technology; I cringe when I try to imagine myself perpetually going through a stack of books instead of Google. If you've got the technology, flaunt it, embrace it, but seriously don't overdo it - talking to those of you who legitimately have their phones super glued to the palms of their hands.
Don't forget about the pretty side to my mind, the less dull, distressing side that is made up of colors, shapes, and thought bubbles - good thought bubbles. I've got it split right down the middle: a haunting grave yard that smells like the Corniche on Sunday mornings on the right, and a world of rainbows, ponies and Harry Styles to my left. It works, I guess.
My mind is polluted. It's as simple as that. This is one of those miraculous Miranda Hobbes discovery that leave you in shock for about three weeks before it's completely processed into your mind. I have a slight addiction to my cellphone, but I could beat it. Do I? No, I'm irrevocably obsessed with the entire concept of the web and technology; I cringe when I try to imagine myself perpetually going through a stack of books instead of Google. If you've got the technology, flaunt it, embrace it, but seriously don't overdo it - talking to those of you who legitimately have their phones super glued to the palms of their hands.
Don't forget about the pretty side to my mind, the less dull, distressing side that is made up of colors, shapes, and thought bubbles - good thought bubbles. I've got it split right down the middle: a haunting grave yard that smells like the Corniche on Sunday mornings on the right, and a world of rainbows, ponies and Harry Styles to my left. It works, I guess.
