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IMAGE 34 (Looking at a scan of my brain)

Writer's picture: Angus TaylorAngus Taylor

I look at the image the doctor took in the big brain scanner machine. The top of the sheet says “Image 34”.

Hi image 34. You look like a worm. Or a bastard jellyfish that stings my leg. But truly you’re an inspiration… Or just an inspiration. Very worm like. Maybe multiple worms. Or maybe the flying spaghetti monster? Is he real? Is this proof? Christianity, Islam, Judaism, are they all wrong? Does the spaghetti like structure in the human brain, prove once and for all that god is real? Maybe it’s just a coincidence, a string of neural fibres, showing creativity. What could the truth be? I couldn’t know I’m just guessing as an ill-educated nitwit. A bit hard on myself, because all things considered, I’m not a professor of neurology. Or psychology. I wanted to be a psychologist, but things went south. The psychology teachers were more interested in their personal opinions on feelings than the scientific biology of neurology.

 

Where is the overlap between art and science, between truth and philosophy? Is this art mixed with science, or is this just taking a piece of data out of context and spouting out utter drivel. Other people make it work. Karl Pilkington made a whole career out of spouting drivel. “I find if you just keep yourself talking, eventually something will come out”. Have I said anything profound here? Not really? What’s the point in writing anyway? I don’t know. Am I being too self-deprecating? Or am I really writing nonsense? I like to think I have intelligent thoughts sometimes but sometimes I know I’m spouting nonsense. Is that the point of what I’m doing? Will I get good grades for this? Or will I be metaphorically shat on like I was back in school. Like a bird shitting on your head, ruining a good day. Back to 34, I wonder if my brain looks like that right now. Bobbling around in my head, thinking of nonsense. The most powerful organ in the universe, the human brain, and it’s sitting here contemplating the point, of contemplating the point, of contemplating the point of nothing.

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