Metaphors 

My lungs control my brain.

Every so often it gasps in the fire, that of a burning house or perhaps the toxic smoke of my surroundings. The soft tissue that has been breathing life into my body from the very first moment knows when the air is getting harder to breathe; it knows when starving itself of oxygen would be healthier if not irreversible. It sends a message to my brain, sounding the warning signs that signify my unfortunate position. Or my self-inflicted location. 

You see, the brain is only the processing machine. It controls the mechanical movements but just like it is indifferent to the pain of the nerves, it is indifferent to the quality of the air that comes in. Sometimes it is fire; sometimes it is icy water. It always depends on what the other people surrounding me are breathing out or not breathing out when I am alone. Some people are toxic. Some people are fresh scents of warm cinnamon, vanilla and a hint of ripe strawberry. Others are Arctic water or perhaps hurricane winds; I breathe them in either by choice or by circumstance and I cannot be too picky. 

Humans need air. 

So I try to focus on what I exhale – I want to be the fresh water from a river after rain or perhaps the morning coffee with a hint of chocolate. If someone somewhere should breathe in the air that has gone through my body or touched it in anyway I shall wish that it is a treat, not poison. Breathing in fire and poison is the cancer of the lungs. It transfers to the brain and influences just about every other system. 

I want to control my brain, so I shall inhale everything but only exhale the good scents that may help end the vicious cycle.

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