Dear Brain,
Firstly, allow me to comment on the fundamental irony of this letter. I’m writing it to criticise you, but in order to think of these criticisms and capture them in a blog-worthy format, I’m using you. It’s you, with all of your flaws and shortcomings, that has realised you have a problem. You’ve recognised this problem, but more importantly, you’re willing to call yourself out on it. Good on you. This vaguely reminds me of a quote I once heard: “A physicist is an attempt by an atom to understand itself.”. It’s a lovely quote, and implies a level of introspection that one wouldn’t normally consider. But you probably know that, seeing as it was you who came up with the quote. Also, and I’m not sure why this is relevant, the first three letters in your name are the same as in mine, and since it can’t possibly be a mere coincidence, this lends you a certain amount of insubstantial credibility.
Let’s get one thing very clear: when you do something well, you do it fantastically well. It’s thanks to you that we understand so much about the universe and its machinations, and it’s thanks to you that I’m able to type this blog and see it pop up on a screen. Humanity has seen more than its fair share of brilliance, and all of that is because of you. Unfortunately, being the selfish beings that we are, we tend to take your abilities for granted, and I’m just as guilty of that as the next guy. As a result of this, I’m going to temporarily suspend my appreciation of what you’re good at and instead just talk about what you’re not good at.
Brain, you are a strange organ indeed. It’s thanks to you that I can walk into a room, promptly forget what it was I set out to do, and walk out of the room with nothing but a vague sense of anticlimax. It’s thanks to you that I can spend half an hour looking for my glasses before realising they were on my head the whole time. It’s thanks to you that no matter how desperate I am to sink into the labyrinth of my dreams, I’m forced to spend a restless hour thinking of entirely random things which I’ll promptly then forget about.
I’ve been told that I’m vague, and I agree. I’ve been told that I tend to get lost in my own world (I’m generally told this by my mother, whose instructions I’ve generally been ignoring for the last fifteen minutes because I’m far too absorbed in how Harry, Ron and Hermione are going to escape the devil’s snare). I’m not particularly bothered by these events, but the fact that other people get more than a little irritated by them indicates that it might just be a problem. I can’t help it, though- you’re just like that.
What’s irritating is that you don’t even have the decency to have the same problems from person to person. If everyone was vague, or everyone zoned out periodically, it wouldn’t be a perfect scenario, but we’d adapt. We would come to terms with our limitations and find ways to accommodate them in our lives. However, that would be far too peaceful an existence, so instead, you decide to make one person vague, the next a perfectionist, the next a sycophant and just for good measure, the next guy is a homicidal maniac. As a result of your fickle nature, it becomes a lot more difficult to communicate with each other. It’s easy to misinterpret what other people say and do and the confusion that follows is at best awkward.
Not only are you inconsistent from person to person, you’re also universally riddled with flaws. You jump to conclusions far too quickly. You forget things that you really shouldn’t, and remember things that I’d rather forget as soon as possible. You make me remember the most minuscule details of a joke a teacher told in class, but you can’t for the life of you remember what I was actually taught.
All of these things, are, to say the very least, inconvenient. Life would be so much easier if everyone made the same mistakes but knew exactly how everyone else functioned. It would also be so much more boring. It’s because of your flaws that I can actually have interesting conversations with people and learn new things. It’s because of your flaws that sitcoms like How I Met Your Mother and Friends are even remotely believable. Most of the time, it’s the confusion that’s brought on by your flaws that brings colour into life.
Wasn’t this letter supposed to be a criticism? It’s turned out to be more of a thank-you note. Brain, you are indeed a diabolical son of a schmuck.
Regards,
Brahm Capoor
P.S. If you could stop getting songs stuck in my head, that would be great.
Abzonnian Ramblings 