The Tunnel Beneath my Brain

 

Most people think with roads. Straight ones. They go from point A to point B, maybe take an exit at "Forgot Why I Walked Into This Room" before getting back on track.

But not me.

Beneath my brain is a tunnel. Not a metaphorical one—an actual, poorly lit, possibly haunted tunnel that connects all my thoughts like a rogue subway system with no budget and a deep love of chaos.

I first discovered it in third grade during a spelling test. I was supposed to write “elephant,” but halfway through the word I blinked and suddenly had a vivid mental image of a walrus in a tutu singing opera. That’s when I knew: there was a tunnel. And it didn’t follow the curriculum.

It’s not always helpful. Once, someone asked me what time it was. I opened my mouth and confidently said, “Banana.” That was the tunnel's doing. Somewhere deep inside, a sleepy conductor probably pulled the wrong lever.

But sometimes—oh, sometimes—the tunnel delivers.

Like when I was stuck trying to solve a crossword clue: “Six-letter word for regret.” Nothing came. I stared, I sighed, I cursed my overcooked brain. Then, like a rat in sneakers, a thought sprinted through the tunnel and screamed: “REMORSE!” before disappearing into the shadows. It was glorious.

My friends think I’m distractible. My teachers used to call it “creative misfiring.” My therapist once described it as “a neurological funhouse with ADHD gremlins.” But the truth is, I just have... routes.

Not everyone can jump from “laundry detergent” to “existential dread” in under four seconds. Or go from “toast” to “the French Revolution” without even stopping at “why am I holding a spoon?”

Sure, the tunnel beneath my brain is dusty, disorganized, and smells vaguely of crayons and panic. But it’s mine. It’s fast. It’s weird. And occasionally, it shortcuts me right into brilliance—or at least into a joke about why cats would make terrible pilots.

And really, isn’t that all thinking is?