Sometimes it seems I repeat myself over and over expressing the same idea in different metaphors and allegories and framing devices. But always the same thing. I feel this too about all that I write. Sometimes, often really, I’ m embarrassed to speak because I am only repeating what I say and what I’ve said and what I have been saying. Like a cassette tape human.
My sister this morning asked what I had for breakfast, an attempt of conversation, and said to me, “I wish to be like you, waking in the morning and reading. How do you manage to wake when it’s so cold out and so warm under the blankets?” Well, why I get up is that I’m hungry. And she asked what I ate, I ate the pancakes sealed in a plastic bag and cold and probably not actually pancakes but I don’t know what to call them. And I believe what she said next was prompted by a misinterpretation of the book I was reading (The Selfish Gene; and for your information, I do know about Dawkin’s eugenicism and antitheism) because she asked, “If it wasn’t for maths, would you consider then the field of psychology?” Of course she did not say it in these exact words. That is my style of writing and speaking. Anyhow, I wouldn’t. “You just emit the aura of a person that’d like psychology. All the smart people really like psychology.”
I have complicated thoughts on the field of psychology as a whole, really. To be honest, neuroscience, though overwhelming, is so intriguing to me and how it overlaps with artificial intelligence. It’s so easy to copulate and begot a child— even accidentally— and comes with that this brain even millions, perhaps billions of dollars of research and technological advancements could only manage a replica capable of a fraction of the ability of intelligence and nuance we were all granted at birth. How does this human brain work? And perhaps further into the future it will be an actual concern the conscience of artificial intelligence but nowhere are we there now. Neuroscience is neat.
Today during kateika, they were preparing tea and cookies and sweet potato. I just stood over a counter with my thoughts to accompany me, that and pen and paper. That’s plenty company. On the days I consider myself lacking, and “do nothing”, I write most. I write most when I am bored out of my skull during a schoolday, really. I’ve been humming to myself the whole day, “Iowa… Iowa… Iowa…”
Despite failing to contribute, they let me eat. They’re too kind. I felt sort of bad but I am not refusing sweet potato and cookies. I washed up the pots afterwards, at least I may contribute this. I recognized the tea as earl grey, the least favorite of the teas in my lifetime I’ve tried, honestly. If curious about my favorites, it’d be mugichaa and in the summers, cold momochaa. Someoneone didn’t eat their sweet potato entirely and there was a guy holding the plate of the leftover skin asking who wanted it. I did. That’s what I’ve become— I eat the crusts left behind of bread and the skin of sweet potato. And it all stems from that I’d eat the cookie of the oreo.
Clearly this is the sole reasoning and origin of my demented behaviour.