I like to think of the mind as an endless and restless rollercoaster. It makes loops that don’t necessarily make sense to anybody else except for the builder, the beholder. Writing is a way in which to build backwards from this roller-coaster, to reveal the blueprints required to create it. Writing, essentially, allows me to see which parts work in which ways. When the rollercoaster makes a loop-de-loop, I can write and identify exactly why this is happening, why I am getting a rush from this particular thought. I can disengage with the parts that are less significant and thrilling, and reengage with the parts that will not release me from the seat.
However, the caveat in this metaphor remains – I never have, nor will I ever, completely understand the inner workings of my brain, and thereby, the blueprints of my personal rollercoaster. There are a million different ways to build one, by utilizing different types of screws and metals and velocities and beginning speeds, the list is endless. I can find a million different reasons as to why a particular section of track is interesting or important.
The metaphor itself is a fantastic example of how I think: it’s a bit of a mess. It whirls around and rises to fantastical heights, and it can be spurred by something as simple as rose-tinted glasses, or the glint of the sunshine, or the sting of a particularly sad break up. I notice the oddest things and ignore the obvious. And though this provides for honest writing, it fails to cater to a more sensible audience. This sensible audience would simply be too… well, sensible to join me on my mythical roller coaster. Perhaps they would find it amusing, or intriguing from afar when looking at it. Yet, to delve into it is a completely different action, one which should certainly be approached with caution.
Yet, why do I write if my consciousness of this audience makes me so shy? Why do I continue to lay my heart on a sleeve which will only be used for wiping snot off of a nose? Why do I write when my rollercoaster always has been, and always will be, a single-manned joy ride?
Perhaps I write in order to please this sensible audience. Because my mind makes no sense, I like to think that writing, organizing, and settling my blueprints may perhaps appeal to this audience so unlike myself. The critical type, the one that will tell me my world is full of fantastically unrealistic ideals.
Perhaps I write in order to speculate with the other rollercoasters in the world. To compare structure and whismy, to construct new ideals I’ve yet not explored, to fantasize and to dream with others with similarly messy minds, so beautifully chaotic.
Yet, if I were to choose a reason to write, without speculation, I would write to understand. As I grow and mature and intelligence weighs on my shoulders, I find I continuously realize how little I truly know. Knowing does not refer to the answers on an 8th grade biology test – truthfully, the only thing anyone remembers from that is that the mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell. No. Knowing indicates understanding, empathy, recognizing someone elses’ trials and tribulations while simultaneously realizing you will never share them because you are not them. Knowing is taking your own experiences and casting them out on the world, showing the world why these experiences are important. Why they matter.
I find that knowing and understanding gives my rollercoaster peace. And though I will never know everything in the world – not even a fraction of it – I will gladly take on the neverending project of writing in order to at least try. All of that said, I invite you to embark on such a journey with me.
Welcome to a little piece of my mind – it’s a rather odd place to be.