It’s been many years in the unmaking. My brain was never the finest to begin with. And over four and half decades later, I’ve made Rudolf Clausius proud: I am living proof that entropy isn’t just a theory—it’s a lifestyle. Even a dysfunctional brain that has hit rock bottom can deteriorate if not acted upon with intent, direction, energy, and a few stouts with a side of fries.
I am unable to focus when I want to. I can barely remember my kids ages. Survival instincts, though, have forced me to remember my parent’s wedding anniversary and my debit card PIN.
This is the case. I start reading books with great interest, only to forget the first page by the second. My recall function sputters and misfires. And soon I drift away thinking of lunch, an argument with a colleague, my dead-for-thirty-years dog Bruce’s drool, and—wait, what book is this?
This kind of premature senility began soon after I was born. A love of comfort and entertainment made me frustratingly lazy to attempt any mental gymnastics more complex than 2+2=3 (which I still dispute). This cognitive decline isn’t genetics—it’s inertia laced with daydreams.
And so here I am. With a rising desire to master my mind, I am going to apply myself to learn to read faster, remember better, improve focus, and increase my state of awareness and other cognitive abilities. I blush when I think of my apotheosis—the venerable Johnny English himself.
Do I have it in me? Maybe Sister Bernita, my elementary school teacher, was right. I am, perhaps, called to the noble task of herding cattle or cleaning the hen coop. Nothing less. But for sure nothing more.
Anyways, I would like to document this journey as frequently as I can. I want to give my mind a fighting chance. As Michael Jackson… or Mickey Mouse… or maybe my uncle Georgekutty might have uttered, “Better to have tried and lost than never to have tried at all!”