The Rogue Neuron
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You know I love writing autobiographies. Well, today I happened to meet a neuron... Let’s hear what it has to say!
I was born in a place where sparks lived. Tiny bursts of light carrying thoughts, memories, emotions. A brain neuron, they called me, but I was more than that. I was a bridge, a courier between silence and meaning.
Photo by @bambuka
I don’t remember my beginning. Who does? But I know my job: to keep the current alive, to let the spark travel. One day, that spark didn’t come. I tried and tried. But nothing! The hum I had always felt—the certainty of life... It sputtered like a candle in the wind...
Something had gone wrong. A life-and-death situation, they would call it, though for us neurons, it’s simply existence: spark or silence. The synapses, my connections, had gone awry. Paths I used to know, where impulses would race and dance, were now dark. I reached out, stretching my arms into the void, but there was nothing. Nothing but darkness and silence!
Then came the pull: Cold and sudden. I felt myself being carried away. Maybe this was what they called dying. I was still, enclosed, surrounded by darkness. I didn’t know where the others had gone or if they were still carrying sparks somewhere far away. Not knowing anything was the most difficult part.
For a briefest moment, a light broke through the dark. The electric impulse, so bright it stung, lit up my world for just a milli second. I wasn’t ready. They asked me questions then, though no voices were speaking.
Where had the spark gone?
Why had I failed?
I didn’t know any of the answers. I was just a bridge with no one to cross me. I felt so so helpless.
I tried recalling my purpose... I think I was once a rogue neuron. A neuron that will tickle other neurons measurably, but it might only rarely tickle behavior, thinking, feeling or perception... Ugh! Frustrating... No, I can't feel any frustration. I'm numb. I don't have the feelings anymore...
Wait: Then, like a memory, I saw it: the moon. Silver, glowing, silent. It hovered over a garden I knew. My garden. Or was it? The roses, the stillness... I recognized it all. But then I realized I wasn’t there.
This wasn’t my garden. It was my my host's grandma’s place, a distant summer memory, soft light, a familiar breeze. It was the place where life had once felt easy and whole, where nothing ever broke. It was a happy place.
What the heck now? I can now see the craters in the moon. Where am I? Or I have some telescopic abilities now??? How on earth moon is this possible?
Maybe this is where my spark has gone, I thought. When the connections fray and the paths darken, maybe it retreats to places we once loved. My spark was gone maybe, but my memory hadn't. Isn't the memory equivalent to life? What is a life without memories?
I wasn’t alive, but I wasn’t gone. I was waiting. Waiting for the spark to return - or for the silence to take me completely...
These photos are the property of @bambuka, taken from his renowned Story-by-Photo contest in our Dream Steem community. Participating in this contest after so long was a truly nostalgic experience, taking me back to my early days on Steem.
I hope my post didn’t come across as too dark. There’s no need for concern. It's just one of those philosophical days we all have from time to time.
I encourage everyone to join this contest; it’s a great opportunity to challenge yourself creatively and share your perspective. If you do participate, feel free to tag me. I’d love to read your side of the story!
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