My brain on myth does not think in straight lines. It meanders like a river in flood season—layered, sensory, recursive. It remembers how to think with the body, how to stitch language with heartbeat and feet pressed against the soil. Myth is like a smoke web of cognition. It stretched my attention span beyond productivity and precision, into pulses and presence. My thoughts became tidal, threading memory with moss, grief with stone, myth with breath. My brain on myth no longer seeks clarity or logic, but rhythmic coherence. It now listens with skin, dreams in entanglements, thinks in seasons, and metabolizes meaning in slow digestions, messy, fertile, alive.

My brain on myth is no longer mine. It’s a co-becoming, entangled with verbs instead of nouns, creatures instead of categories. Myth has untrained me from mastery, replacing it with kinship, improvisation, and trust in mystery. It unsettled cognition from the tyrannies of fixity, purity, progress, and separation. It made space for the world to think through me. Myth, here, is not a tale I tell, but a field I breathe in, a shroud of old forests, steaming mountains, and wild oceans. It is not a metaphor for something else, it is the thing—speaking through trees, symptoms, silences, and stories that refuse to resolve. This brain is no longer mine, it is myth-full and unbordered, and it attempts to attune.