You can tell by my soggy shoe.

 

      I am not merely a thinker—I am a constellation of half-lit impulses. The unused portion of my brain is not idle; it is vast. It hums like a forgotten satellite, tugging at my conscious orbit with the gravity of what I might have been.

      I reach for a spoon and feel the pull of a thousand metaphors. I say “hello,” and somewhere in the folds of my cortex, a choir of unspoken greetings rehearses in silence.  I have no idea what that means.

       This dark matter—this cognitive abyss— it does not speak, but it shapes. It is the playwright behind my pauses, the director of my detours, the ghostwriter of my contradictions.  Although sometimes it is the puddle I accidentally step in.