I’ve been told humans use only ten percent of their brains. Sometimes I think I use all ten to wonder what the other ninety percent is doing. How lonely the ninety must be. How exhausted the ten. Working all the time, never resting, never stopping. An entire life–all our lives–stuffed into ten percent.
Everything we’ve ever done, every step, every dance, every song. All our laughs and burps and kisses and frowns and tears and fights. Every marriage, every murder, every movement, every moment–have all taken place in that ten percent.
So why was I surprised when I got that CT scan showing little spots all over my lungs? When my doctor said, “Only ten percent of patients with thyroid cancer see it spread to their lungs.” When all of my life–my dreams and stumbles and creations and defeats–have all happened in the ten percent, why did I dream I’d be in the ninety now?
Maybe it’s because I still hope for the ninety. I haven’t given up on it as it hides in the corner, waiting to be found, waiting to be used.
And maybe we all hope for the ninety. The percent that holds our hidden dreams and magical things. The one where inspiration blooms and raw ideas form and where cancer doesn’t grow. And who knows? Maybe we will be there someday.
But for now, I am the ten percent. The ninety may be infatuating, but the ten is stable and sturdy. It’s comforting. Full. The ninety may happen one day, but the ten is happening now.
It’s where we breathe and think and feel and live. It’s where we are. It’s what we know. It’s where we should be.
(See this story and the prompt that inspired it at https://hitrecord.org/records/2893565)