My five-year-old son tells me, “When I’m asleep, my mind is sleeping. When I’m awake, my mind is awake. When I’m sad, my mind is sad. When I’m happy, my mind is happy. When I’m mad, my mind is mad. Every time I talk, I can see my mind. When I said that, I saw in my mind.”
He has also told me that his “mind” consists of two “mouses.” The mice perch on top of his brain, inside his skull. The mice are the size of a crumb, and their house is the size of a crumb. “Actually, they’re like molecules,” he says. “You can’t see them if they come out of my head.”
The mind of the mice is the size of Bass Pond in Springfield, however. After all, they have to have their own mind, too, or else they couldn’t exist.
The mice wear headphones so they can listen to what’s going on, connected to my son’s ears.
The mice tell him what to say. They also bring pictures up so he can imagine stuff. Very useful.