A Restless Mind

Do you want our children to become warriors, so they may overcome this age of extinction. Open their minds - give them something they have yet to discover. Give them someone who cares. Give them God.

I asked A.I. how Mark Twain, Foghorn Leghorn and Jesus would come to discuss the human psyche......I intentionally had a humorist hiding behind a fictitious name, a cartoon from the virtual world and God join together to discuss this topic, knowing that God created the alternate two realties. Please read the response slowly, and at least 3 or 4 times. Make sure your inner door opens, so that it is slightly ajar.

A Restless Mind

Three figures met at the edge of a restless mind—
not heaven, not earth, but somewhere in between
where thoughts echo louder than truth.

.....Twain leaned against a half-finished sentence,
twirling irony like a cigar between his fingers.
“Well now,” he said, “the human psyche—
a fine place to get lost and call it exploration.”

Foghorn Leghorn burst in like a misplaced exclamation,
feathers puffed, voice booming against the void.
“I say, I say, that brain’s a barnyard!
Full o’ chatter, no one listenin’—
boy’s got thoughts runnin’ around like chickens
that done forgot why they crossed the road!”

And Jesus stood quietly,
not above them, not apart,
but within the very space they questioned.
“The mind is a house with many rooms,” he said softly.
“Some locked in fear, others lit by love.
Most wander without knowing who built the doors.”

Twain chuckled.
“Doors, yes—but no shortage of folks
arguing whether they’re trapped or just indoors.”

Foghorn scratched his head.
“Well why not just kick ‘em open?
I say, problem solved!”

Jesus smiled—not dismissing, not agreeing.
“Because the door is often made of the self.
And who breaks it must also rebuild.”

Silence settled, but not empty—
more like a thought waiting to become itself.

Twain flicked away his unfinished line.
“Seems to me the trouble is simple:
people want certainty in a place designed for questions.”

Foghorn nodded vigorously.
“I say, they think too loud and listen too soft!”

And Jesus looked at both, then outward—
toward whoever might be thinking them.
“The psyche is not the enemy,” he said.
“It is the path.
But many mistake the noise for the voice.”

A distant echo stirred—
perhaps a reader, perhaps a doubt.

Twain grinned.
“Well, if this is the mind, it’s a peculiar little circus.”

Foghorn laughed.
“Yeah—and everybody’s both the ringmaster and the clown!”

Jesus did not laugh, but his eyes held something brighter.
“Or,” he said, “both lost and found.”

And somewhere,
in the shifting corridors of thought,
a door creaked open—
not loudly, not all at once—
but enough.