Monday, January 28, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Life of a cat
A cat.
That's the life to have.
Being a cat.
Preening and sleeping.
Eating and bounding.
A silly outburst of enthusiasm.
Spot jumps and muscle spasms.
Pawing eagerly at an unknown stranger.
Or leaping into the face of apparent danger.
Letting ignorance rule my life.
The world being my prey.
Jumping into dustbins, looking for food.
Or perhaps being pushed into one by a passing troubler.
Looking coy.
Having large snake-like eyes, that hypnotize.
The ability to crouch, ready to pounce,
Hair on end, waiting and waiting.
Still as a statue. Imperceptibly breathing.
Pulling my ears back and extending my whiskers.
Stepping into wetness, my only worry.
A natural born yogi.
Yes.
That's the life to have.
One of a cat.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Mental neurons
Dreams are intriguing. A combination of our subconscious and imagination. Memories repeating in our minds. We dream up such a multitude of bizarre stories in strange, unknown locations. There are scientific explanations for these happenings. But part of me doesn't want any explanation. To wake up each morning, wondering about the ridiculous spectacle I just beheld and puzzling about the series of events that lead to the putting-together of that dream is too elating to be ruined by science. To a child, the formation of a rainbow is sheer magic. But to us educated folk, knowing light splits up into seven colors just makes it a beautiful phenomenon, not a magical one.
Dreams may be deep-seated fantasies. We see what we wish would happen. We imagine these situations, sometimes repeatedly. But this theory worries me. I once dreamed of bathing, butt naked, right in the middle of my college. People were walking around me nonchalantly, some even stopped to make small talk. There was nothing unusual about this dream- while I was dreaming it. When I awoke and tried to recollect what I dreamed of, the thought of bathing in the open highly amused me. Deep-seated fantasies, huh?
Our brain doesn't store unnecessary information or mundane details. It tries to remain clutter-free. Almost as though it's constantly making space for new input. Like clearing out your memory card before setting out on a photo-taking spree. But it seems to have a very well defined mechanism for selecting what is relevant and what isn't. Our dreams don't stick with us. They are wiped from our minds sooner than we can crawl out of bed and make it to the bathroom. We often wish we could record our dreams and re-watch them. Our brain, however, knows better than to save it up for a re-run. Why reuse something when it can come up with something just as good, but unique, again? Our subconscious mind must have an ego about the dreams it puts together.
What about the childhood nightmares we always remember? I remember two. The first one was a falling dream. I was about two years old and was seated at our first floor window. I saw my mother downstairs and began to fall- calling out to her. The second one was of being chased by a white phantom. I was older this time, perhaps six. What I recall distinctly was the feeling of being carried through the air, uncontrollably, when all I wanted was to get out of the dream. So what about them? Why do they stick around? No theory is hard and fast. There are exceptions to them all. Hidden loopholes.
Scientific discoveries are made to be disproved by future scientists.
Dreams are like a child's new toy. Something to explore, to figure out. The more you know, the more you want to discover.
Dreams may be deep-seated fantasies. We see what we wish would happen. We imagine these situations, sometimes repeatedly. But this theory worries me. I once dreamed of bathing, butt naked, right in the middle of my college. People were walking around me nonchalantly, some even stopped to make small talk. There was nothing unusual about this dream- while I was dreaming it. When I awoke and tried to recollect what I dreamed of, the thought of bathing in the open highly amused me. Deep-seated fantasies, huh?
Our brain doesn't store unnecessary information or mundane details. It tries to remain clutter-free. Almost as though it's constantly making space for new input. Like clearing out your memory card before setting out on a photo-taking spree. But it seems to have a very well defined mechanism for selecting what is relevant and what isn't. Our dreams don't stick with us. They are wiped from our minds sooner than we can crawl out of bed and make it to the bathroom. We often wish we could record our dreams and re-watch them. Our brain, however, knows better than to save it up for a re-run. Why reuse something when it can come up with something just as good, but unique, again? Our subconscious mind must have an ego about the dreams it puts together.
What about the childhood nightmares we always remember? I remember two. The first one was a falling dream. I was about two years old and was seated at our first floor window. I saw my mother downstairs and began to fall- calling out to her. The second one was of being chased by a white phantom. I was older this time, perhaps six. What I recall distinctly was the feeling of being carried through the air, uncontrollably, when all I wanted was to get out of the dream. So what about them? Why do they stick around? No theory is hard and fast. There are exceptions to them all. Hidden loopholes.
Scientific discoveries are made to be disproved by future scientists.
Dreams are like a child's new toy. Something to explore, to figure out. The more you know, the more you want to discover.
If someone came to me and spewed out neurological jargon about why we dream the way we do, I'd be unconditionally fascinated. But it would have killed the magic.
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