This mind you have right now
isn’t the one you’ll have in twenty years.
No, it won’t be a transplant. Or futuristic DNA
meddling. Or an augmentation. (Apologies
to the surgeons). It’s that your brain
was borne to you a membrane. It will grow,
and grow, and outgrow you. It will grow over
the wall of your garden.
Your neighbors will be pissed.
Some things you just know. Those things
you find beautiful. The back of your five
year old’s neck. The feeling of the first taste
of a Coca Cola, when the bubbles go up
your nose. Sweat. The determined sun rising,
even though it happens day, after day, after day.
Kant called it übertragung. Thinking
without concepts. Transfer. Transmission.
As the dark horizon is replaced by the splinters
of dawn, as the idea of love overcomes its physical
unreality, as the green of the trees is replaced
by the chlorophyll in your science textbook.
It all existed before we discovered it.
We only try to siphon it off, to feed
ourselves. The food of life is in ideas.
You know what I know and we know it together.
The things you find beautiful may change,
or they may not. Most likely, they will grow
in number. Things you never noticed before.
The aesthetic is in your heart. You divide
and recreate each beautiful compartment, each symbol
of your essence. Every time you breathe,
your mind drinks the world. Every time,
it opens a new door. Every time, you are
delivered.
