A Sad-ish Story

Dear Brain,

You have been a most excellent neighbor in the years of our mutual tenancy in this building. You may be surprised to hear this. We fought frequently—you, frustrated at the provocations of love and hate, I, resentful of your calculations.

I’ve written to announce that I am moving several floors down, to the basement room. The lock on my current door gives way easily, and the basement door is sturdy–a thick, glossy affair with dead bolts and chains. I keep getting robbed, you know. You will shake your head as you read this because I always invite them in.

Ah, but they don’t look like thieves then, Brain. You know this. You met several, and gave nods of approval. I would go as far as to say that some of them didn’t mean to steal anything. The absentminded drop of a fork into a pocket. Or the eating of several large meals. I looked at my apartment today where hangings once colored the walls, where forks once filled the top drawer, and realized that I am tired of replacing the artifacts of my life.

This is how it happens: You let a thief in and you get robbed. Then, you stop opening the door for awhile. But a particularly charming thief always manages to wiggle beneath the frame, and his company is, for a time, pleasing and constant. And then you wake up and your apartment is empty of furnishings and you have no forks with which to eat your cereal (spoons have long been out of the question).

Love,
Heart