I have no mind.-
Mistake me not, reader- nor imagine that I am by nature destitute of that sacred inner sanctum, that illusive concept of self, and (artistically speaking) that gray matter of personality contained within my physical form. Better to not be carried by my family from suckled infancy to protected adolescence.- I am, I believe, rather basically than abundantly provided with those simple human conduits; and I feel no inclination to dispose myself to envy the brilliant for their plenty, nor the toddler for their rudimentary, in those genuine personhood factories- those indispensable thought-creators.
Neither have I brought upon myself, or done anything in the slightest to incur, with medical accident, that unfortunate hidden disfigurement, which constrains one to a bed drawing existence from a sanatorium machine to feel life, filtered, through that article. I was never, blessedly, down on my knees upon my carpet thankfully, nor if I read my destiny in my first world country right, is it close to within my calculated future that I ever should be.
When, therefore, I lay claim that I have no mind, you will understand me to mean- for study. To say that this person had not turned to jellified goo at the text of abstract concepts, would be a cruel self-libel. Sentence constructs never fail to move it somewhat. So does long division. But they were built to be written upon blackboards by a teacher (written with thick markers that make you light-headed) within a school- a school that impresses fundamental skills for working -merely the skills- should I name the school?-, once the artistry of the comma so impressed itself upon my very being, small child I then was, that my innocent self placed a comma of passion every which way, having not gained the sensibility of where commas belong, and it was only much much later, some time towards the end of my middle school years, that I discovered with some chagrin my improper usage that colored my stories in a juttering manner.
I feel that I am, to a degree, mentally inclined to study. But emotionally, I feel no proclivity to that pastime that indeed fails to pass the time- truly, I am incapable of remaining seated for an extended period of time observing the black ink upon a textbook page. I have begun practicing, however, since middle school and have since attempted to hone the skills to focus upon a single page of essay rules, an illiterate gazing upon a lost language. When I employ my grand interpretations of the glyphs, I am told, to my utter dismay, that I have yet to grasp the proper structuring of formality, my essay being several hundreds of degrees away from what is considered acceptable.
I am not oblivious, let it be known, for once; I do immensely acknowledge my singularly underdeveloped skill of study within my mind. For sitting upon a chaise-longue, the television set quietly rumbling and my dearest Friend A methodically turning the pages of a text, I find that my mind does wander and what was originally to be a thought train on french verb conjugations quickly derails itself to the question of what the french word for gecko would be. As I later discover, it is “le gecko,” an uninspiring answer to a prevalent question within the high school walls.
Yet, it is to my consternation that school study is not the same as these fluid questions and ephemeral fancies. I, my own personal turing machine, click in ones and twos, not within those hallowed– dare I say blesséd -chainlink fences, but rather, instead, within the protected fortress of a Snapple cap fact.