Given a long, convincing career
Of confabulation, I ask myself
What am I for, in the grand scheme
Of the hyper-connected, electric,
Subterranean realms of the brain?
I look around, as always, for an answer.
"Consciousness simply provides
A plausible explanation for choices
That are really made at a much
Deeper level of the mind." Mind!
The "deeper" levels are no mind.
They're cells that could have been
Independent entities a billion
Years ago, long since roped into
A lineage of team-sport parliaments
That I've learned to label multicellular
Organisms. But I take the point.
I exist to confabulate, to make up
Explanations for whatever my massive
Horde of bodily cells tends to do.
I am here as one body's collective
Diplomatic corps, talking fast
To other bodies, or to their own
Diplomats, trying to manipulate
A good result for my contesting team,
Whatever that means. I take pride
In my negotiations, my stories,
My work as I now know it. I live
To provide explanations, to serve
As the maker of plausible reasons.
Why this body, why any body should need
Such provision is not my concern,
Except when I'm asked, at which point
I spring to my evolved task, coming up
From the depths with a tale in my mouth.