my brain is working overtime

(I need Something to ease my mind)

By Samhita Bellary (2025)

                 The brain is like a flower garden. It is diverse and flourishing with life. Vivid colors stand out and the richness of each petal warps the surrounding landscape. Each flower plays a role in the unity and harmony of complexity: Petunias stand together in bushes of nerves as buttercups stay low to the ground, where they know they are best. Sunflowers stand tall, reaching for more, and lavenders keep the blood flowing steady. Asters provide for small bits of pleasure in simplicity, while an intrigue follows the million little creases in marigolds. 

                 This is the way it should be; the brain, a lotus of tissue and muscle, a map of soft folds, growing and beating for more. More interest, more attention, more sustenance, more, more, more. A real brain blooms red hydrangeas out of blood vessels that then spring out of the ear canals, painting the auditory world on a shade of rose. The nervous system is an interconnecting and overlapping series of thin, strand-like vines, and veins pulse with pollen. And don’t flowers provide a blast? An overdose of dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin because all one can smell is the subtle sweetness. All one can see is the vibrant color palette of their own thoughts. 

Sometimes people change their little garden, because surely, one must get tired of it at some point. The smell becomes too sugary, and the colors start to burn a little, and you get bored of the same diverse shades. It can be a cherry blossom tree here and a butterfly bush there. Or maybe a full redesign, complete with ripe fruit and nutritious vegetables. More smells, more interest, and more chemical explosions. Water them, nurture them, and let them grow, because there's no limit beyond the sky, and the fleshy walls of the brain can hold anything. 

However, it is inevitable when the weeds come, sprouting small from the lush, green grass. They sneak their way in through the maze of electrical signals. They sprout from every nerve and cranny, and one can only pull out so many. Spiked leaves start to suck the life out of roots, leaving colors to dull and stems to rot. Petals shrivel in pain and plants limp in despair. Available fruits and vegetables start to mold a fuzzy white mold, turning their guts into mush that turns everything into a dizzy blur. Grass dries into a crackling hay and the dirt eventually starts to turn into sand and dust, marking the end of all things beautiful and new.

From here, it remains as this, a rotting brain, filled with poison sumac and crabgrass. The weeds enlarge as the now visible room of brains reduces in on itself, the giant ragweed living up to its name while it wraps and pokes through the bleeding cells. Burr clovers spiral and spin around skulls, goosegrasses tie themselves to femurs, and sandburs loop through rib cages. Movement has been restricted, and one can feel so tired. Bloodied curly docks replace the bloomed hydrangeas, wrapping the ear in a vice grip, drowning out a whole world. Moss grows on swollen sinuses and blinds red-dripped eyes, and harsh leaves stick out bloody noses. Someone might gag up undergrowth in the process, coughing up specks of dark maroon, and this marks the end. 

One is now stuck in a prison of delicate green, an intricate jigsaw of stems and roots instead of veins. Whether it was intentional or not, the brain has decayed, and there is no going back now. (At least there are newly sprouted dandelions, with their wonderful bright yellow and fuzzy flying seeds.)