This morning I woke up with strong urge to write.
And suddenly I remembered about my long lost and forgotten blog and couldn’t shoved it out of my mind for the entire day.
I spent my lunch time visiting this blog, re-read everything and somehow it feels so emotional for me.
Those past memories are rushing back to the surface.
So here I am on my late night writing session, trying to collect all of my writings from my Path and Instagram accounts, and trying to re-write some of them to this blog.
I never realized that I wrote so much in the past years. It is time to put everything in one platform. Just so I don’t forget my own stories.
Stories exist as a reminder, of the things that I’ve gone through in life.
But stories also have to be made.
So I hope I will always have the courage to go out there and create more stories for myself.
Tonight, I am reminded that everyone has their own battle. The suppressed feeling. The unspoken sadness.
They might not show it, but that doesn’t mean that the pain is not real.
But I hope, I really hope that you’re doing okay.
Tomorrow is another day.
I trust my intuition so much, even to the littlest thing like going to a book store and feeling that a certain book is ‘calling’ me. No matter how random and unfamiliar I am with the topic, I tend to just go with it and give it a chance.
This one, turns out to be one of the best books I’ve ever read. The balance of sweet happy tone of a victory to the tragic side of disaster in neurological cases and treatments is what makes it beautiful in a very humane way. The balance of hope and despair. And the life and death.
Never I empathized so much to other profession like what I feel during my experience reading the story of Henry marsh. His thoughts, his emotions, his decisions while trying to ‘fix’ the brain, the one particular part of the body that gives you consciousness, language, logic, and basically, what makes you, you. From arrogance to humbleness. From sadness to forgiveness.
And from the little gesture I learned from his habit to personally wash and blow-dry the hair of his female patients after the operation, I can see what kind of person he is. I tend to distrust doctors for their detachment with patients. I know I still do. But I hope more doctors are wise enough like Mr. Marsh.
Sometimes I wonder how my dad can keep up with me. A very unconventional daughter. He worries when I come home late. Yet he lets me travel the world on my own. He got panic if I don’t answer his call. Yet he allows me to do whatever I want. Bungy jumping, scuba diving, mountain trekking. I know he always silently pray for my safety. A daughter that sometimes too selfish and stubborn. Yet he loves me so.
Sometimes I wonder how my dad can keep up with me.
But maybe it’s simply because he’s my dad.
The best part of reading a book is the feeling to be understood. It’s like a rendezvous with a like-minded stranger.
And quoting Henry Marsh, this is the exact reason why I got fascinated by our brain.
As a practical brain surgeon I have always found the philosophy of the so-called ‘Mind-Brain Problem’ confusing and ultimately a waste of time. It has never seemed a problem to me, only a source of awe, amazement and profound surprise that my consciousness, my very sense of self which feels as free as air, which was trying to read the book but instead was watching the clouds through the high windows, the self which is now writing these words, is in fact the electrochemical chatter of one hundred billion nerve cells.