Murky Polaroids and Helping Myself Help Myself

I like to liken the brain to a computer--- In many cases, it lets you see bright, glossy graphics, hear beautiful music, smell beautiful smells. Let something go wrong, and the processor doesn't have a clue.
When the brain thinks it's in danger, it starts downloading information from the memory banks... "Help me! Does this work?" "No, Brain, that's Alan Rickman. And I was quite disturbed when you sent me that dream where he kept calling me liebchen. Try again."
(Dreaming, incidentally, is another time when my brain likes to run through tasks, unfortunately, as a result of watching classic horror films and perhaps one too many vintage psychological reports or story of lurid murder, it sends me the weirdest things. I tend to be thrilled when I go for a while minus nightmares. Alan Rickman flirting with me in German was by far the most disturbing. Even more so than the one with Jeremy Clarkson of Top Gear, a Smart Car, and Miss Havisham, of Great Expectations fame. For those who wonder, we took her night-clubbing.) So it's asking me, constantly, "Does this help? Help me! Does this work? Hey! What about this?" And that is why I can't turn my brain off. However, when it restarts itself, it's scary and then I'm left with "Murky Polaroids" in the memory, and in dreams. I'm working on helping it... and on helping it help itself. I'm also hoping to quit being a slave to it.