On the peculiarity of his mind

He sits straight observing the apparatus called his mind. He knocks it off, yet it comes back on its own. Wonders how he manages to go through, life with an apparatus as unreliable as his mind. It knows no logic, it knows no sense a bundle of contradiction, created out of his world that is not true for the first. Glorifies sorrows, when there are none, laments over joy, when there is none. What indeed was the thought, that created the mind? How was it when Man was born, with no one to guide to make the mind the cesspool of contradiction? Alas, if he knew the way the mind worked if he knew how it began