The Landscape of my Brain

I wonder when the ground of my brain started to harden

Into a crust, without moisture.

There was a time when ideas landed and took root

In its furrows, and the air around it would be

A thundercloud of seeds, like a hurricane had blown through

A meadow full of dandelion clocks, each umbrella-tipped seedhead

A fact-shaped piece of wisdom or date or anecdote or idiom or name

And this aggressive flurry of wind would send them off,

Dispersing them.

Fly and rest where you will! Let your knowledge be spread!

They swirled and churned and my brain would regard some

And gather them in, plucking them from the air with excitement and vigour

Like a frantic contestant on a game show, grasping fluttering prize tickets from the air;

And my brain would plant them

In a line, a chosen bed

Labelled "Interesting" or "History" or "Fun" or "Travel" or "Music" or "Stuff" or "Other" or "Whatever"!

A field, it would be, of factual furrows.

Their seeds would be pushed in and cultivated, to be extracted

When ripe or mature or the time was right.

Some would grow big, into strong plants which tickle your synapses or are drawn by your thought fingers

As you pass them by on a contemplative walk through your mind,

Their presence felt more frequently in their earnestness to be noticed,

Like a needy child.

Other seeds too wanted entry into this patch of growth

And floated gently in, through conversations and overheard snippets

And landed without encouragement to flourish regardless,

Such was my brain's absorption power.

There's room here for everyone! Sports' facts, scientific formulas, doom metal!

These seeds would germinate and sit, as the wind of contemplation

Wafted by, waiting for their extraction day - a Trivial Pursuit game

Or a new acquaintance and the search for common topics,

Or a TV quiz show or a crossword clue.

It was a rich environment, my brain, the soil fertile,

Moist, and dark like chocolate, smelling faintly of life yet to be lived

And the promise it offered, like honeycomb or a light, summer rose.

I don't think my brain is like that anymore.

I don't think it's a desert but it's not as orderly.

Things aren't labelled anymore or if they are,

They're placed wrongly or in the wrong place:

Cabbages with kings, kings with condiments, condiments with criminals.

There's tumbleweed, I think: divergent distractions made of tangles;

Ideas that wander, not finding a place to land, bewildered, without drive.

They need to be chased to be sought out and they're tricky tricksters,

Erratically careering without any means of limiting their path

Only coming to you when they are ready.

Bastards.

It's not dead, like a desert - no.

It's not barren - although its landscape is shifting

Like sand, distorted by the elements into something indistinct,

Its substance as tricky to grasp and hold as a handful of silky grains,

Those little pieces of something which was once whole,

Blowing around at the whim of time itself.

But it's not this totally - not yet.

Wisdom can be found like a thistle thriving in a harvested field:

All is shorn except for the spiky purple-flowering stoic who perseveres

As everything is stripped down to golden straws.

If it had a voice it would say:

I'm not going anywhere. Cut me off if you like - but I'll be back.

I think to myself: Which would I prefer?

The soft undulating sands of the desert, dry and hot and bare,

Their dune rises shifting and rippling, too flighty to secure,

Their viscose duplicity taking away your surety with each advancing step?

Something which is expansive, yes, but is a whole lot of nothing?

Or would I rather a field of thistles? Where the landscape is dry but golden,

Tricky to navigate with its stalks but flat and solid underfoot,

And things can still grow, although more sporadically but with determination,

Shown with the aggressively armoured spikes of these random weeds declaring,

Life is here, and things can thrive still if they're deep rooted enough

And tapping in.

All is not dead yet.

It's not as pretty as it once was but it has some merit -

Thistles still flower.