Commentary on My Mind at Six

“The past beats inside me like a second heart.” 

― John Banville

We often discover interesting memorabilia when we are hit with the sudden urge to clean and sort things only a few weeks before we sit important examinations. These curios are, of course, interesting in their intrinsic natures as relics of the past, and definitely not because they help us procrastinate. They trigger within us a variety of responses: amusement, embarrassment, nostalgia, lust, happiness, sadness. Their effects may be pronounced because we are a bit mentally unstable (supra important examinations), but I would argue the relationship between our reactions and our conditions is more to do with correlation than causation. Such flashes from the past must be explored regardless of circumstance. In this commentary I intend to create an anachronistic narrative between me and my former self. Such a narrative revolves around a decade-old artifact from my first years in a new school - an exercise book containing sentences which reveal the inner mental workings of an eccentric, if not slightly disturbed, six-year-old.

Source 1

There are many pathways of curiosity which we can take to explore this sentence.

Unfortunately none of them lead to a good place.

Lets begin with the obvious question: what is "tugged myself"? The trusty repository of definitions (Google) defines tug as: "pull (something) hard or suddenly". What is startling here is not the physically impossible feat of pulling oneself, but rather the fact that I must have thought of something similar to what is described in order to formulate the sentence itself. There was no copy pasting, no asking of parents or siblings for help: just pure independent thought. But that is not even the weird bit.

"I nearly choked"? What did I choke on? What was tugged that caused the choking? Was this self-punishment? What initiated it? A fit? No one will ever know. The only rational explanation that can be provided is that I pulled my tongue with my bare hands. Does that result in a near-choking experience? I have no idea. Try it and leave a comment below. 

Source 2

The teacher's red question mark says it all, doesn't it?

Being a good son and respecting your mother is quite a normal thing (bar some cultures), but the concept of yielding, of surrendering yourself to your mother, is reasonably disconcerting. Let's not stray to the realms of Mr. Freud and Oedipus for the safety of our respective consciences. Instead let's look at the essence of sacrificing autonomy. Doing so, for anyone, is just wrong, especially when you do it without questioning yourself.

But I did question myself, and that is the redeeming feature of this source. It is clear I developed notions of dominance, submission, the matriarchy and my own rights as an individual way before anyone else. So not everything's so bad!

Source 3

Yeah.

Clearly "I didn't know why" about many things, but this one takes home the title for the most creepy. As far as I am aware I am not a paranoid schizophrenic, but the hypersensitivity directly referenced in this is troubling, to say the least.

Aside from the wow-that's-actually-kind-of-messed-up factor, there is a glaring logical inconsistency in my thought process. Shadows are not really visible in the darkness, so clearly my IQ was yet to begin its exponential growth.

Source 4

This is actually one of the few written references which exist about my quasi-phobia of dogs.

But that is not what I want to focus on. The more interesting question is: why is it that puppies are not real but dogs are? At what point do puppies become dogs, thereby validating their realness? Is this transformation quick or slow, smooth or erratic? This perspective, of separating puppy from dog, must stem from how children are indirectly conditioned to believe that with age comes authority. Puppies, like children, are insignificant. They have not earned their place in the world. They were squeezed or cut out of their mothers to become useless pilfering organisms. On the other hand, dogs, like adults, are the movers and shakers. They are the hunters and gatherers. The providers and protectors.

In all seriousness, the general uselessness of the youth cannot be understated. Adults may tell us we are important, but as long as it is unclear whether or not teenagers are contributing to controlling the secret workings of the world via corporations and cults, I will refuse to believe it.

Source 5

I will not even blame myself for this one. The education system did this. I guess the imprint of a Western, capitalist and consumerist culture begins to form from an early age.

There are some intriguing things here. Firstly, why "white" sheep? I do not think I have ever seen a black sheep (even though copious reiterations of a certain nursery rhyme has ingrained the concept into my brain). Was it necessary to describe the colour of the sheep? Probably not, but I guess my superfluous authorial style was already starting to develop.

Apparently the only use for sheep (that are white) is their wool for making clothes. Who could have taught me such blasphemy? A vegetarian teacher? Sheep (especially young ones) have many other uses.

Source 6

Always dreaming, like, always having big dreams? Or always being stuck in a transitory, continuous space-time in which I cannot separate reality from fantasy? Probably the latter. In any case, the aberration in form, (the split between dreaming) must serve to emphasise the dichotomous nature of life and existence. I was aware of dualism and solipsism before philosophy was cool. Are you going to take that, IB TOK doers?

Source 7

This is another "I don't know ..." (Part IV), and it just gets better.

Considering the fact that the human sense of smell is constantly receiving information half of the time (the other half being when we exhale), it is not so far a stretch to say that one is continuously smelling something. However, there is a difference between purposely smelling something and getting a whiff of something. In this rhetorical question I appear to be doing the former. As much of a mystery that may be - of what I'm smelling and what it smells like - the more confusing thing is my continuous self-doubt. Why do I keep doing things without knowing why? Does this perhaps relate to my comments about living in an eternal dream state? Am I a schizo after all? Time will tell.

Source 8

Interesting syntax inversion. Anyways, clearly I had some sort of intuition behind this documentation of my body's response to cabbage. It may be that cabbage contains soporific chemicals, as do poppy seeds, and that is what caused me to act in such a way.

What I have now found out is that six-year-old me inadvertently uncovered a scientific goldmine through personal experience: according to wikiHow (the digital North Star for every lost and hormonal teenager) cabbage contains tryptophan, which releases "melatonin and serotonin for good sleep. It speeds up the onset of sleep, decreases the level of spontaneous awakenings during your sleep, and helps to increase the amount of refreshing sleep you get." If I had the powers of research at the age of six, surely such a finding would have resulted in a groundbreaking academic paper. How unfortunate.

Source 9

Let's just skim over the fact that I knew who Steve Erwin was and focus on this overwhelmingly confusing string of words. Why wasn't Steve Erwin careless, means why was he careful. So my question was: Why was Steve Erwin careful about the animals in the sea? This is one of those questions which is responded to not with speech but with a puzzled look - Steve Erwin just, cares. Why would you even ask that.

I must have held some sort of prejudice to sea animals because clearly I did not believe they deserved the same care as other creatures. Quite sad really. Anyways, rest in peace Stevie.

Source 10

Saved the longest one for last, and what a story this is.

What I admire about this comma-free journey of fifty-two words is that, as a little child, not only did I have the self-control to not kill myself in the story (a prospect which would have been much more exciting), but I also had the foresight to include a disclaimer at the end as a pre-planned resolution for any potential disputes. So considerate.

Another thing which is interesting is that this mini-story reveals a highly complex stream of associations. The given word to construct a sentence around was "bridge". How I managed to come up with what appears to be a microcosm of a short story is a great puzzle in itself.

*

It is odd to read your own words as if they were written by someone else. What is more odd is when these words comprise weird sentences. Upon reflection you realise that at the time you wrote them you did not think it was weird, out of place, inappropriate, uncalled for, offensive, or idiotic. In fact, the innocence is what makes childhood behaviour so amusing. 

The sentences I wrote reveal my thought processes, my likes and dislikes, my fears, my passions, my abilities - all of which would have been lost with the gradual decay of memory. Of course, there are some parts which probably ring alarm bells, and I wonder if I was ever probed about what I wrote.

Now, the only step left to complete the loop is to come back in ten years to this post, having forgotten all about it, and to read it with that new found sense of wonder, preferably at a time in which I should be doing something else, like preparing for important examinations...