I think a lot. Sometimes, I think, I think more than people normally should. And then, I panic, and I try to stop. But, thinking is addictive; it’s what wakes me up in the morning, and keeps me up at night.
Do you ever go through that terrible phase where you feel angry at the whole world, and your tears are all choked up, and you don’t know what to do? You want to feel sorry for yourself, so you start thinking of all the bad things that have happened to you? Things that make you bitter?
I think back to when my dog died. I was only about 8 year old, and that was my first experience of loss.
As a child with a very blurry concept of what death is, and a way too strong belief in magic, and miracles; I would lie in bed every night with my teddy bear clutched to my chest, tears streaming down my face, and I would pray. No wait, correction, I would beg.
I would beg God to let me be able to say goodbye to her, to just let me touch her fur one last time, pet her, hug her-anything.
Makes me wonder sometimes, what would children be like were we not born so gullible and ignorant. Would they be cynics? Pessimists? Realists? I think adding optimism here does no good, no one born in this world with their eyes open can be an optimist.
God didn’t answer my ‘prayers’, so, I pretended He did.
Clutching on to my teddy, half asleep, drifting into the realm of magic and miracles; I conjured up an image of my dog, ran my hands through the teddy bear’s fur, and I petted her.
Oh what a happy night it was.
I woke up the next day, keeping my miracle a secret, unconsciously knowing that if I told anyone, my joy would dissipate.
And isn’t that how life works? Things happen and they make you happy, and then you let the world in on the secret, and *pop* the bubble bursts, reality sets in. Your joy is temporary, Murphy’s law is absolute.
Cue the thinking.