The weight of the world is just heavy, isn't it? I don't know why anybody, especially me, feels like they need to carry it on their shoulders. Who am I to think I am that important?
So, I have been working on this particular blog for over a week. My thoughts just would not jell. And that by itself is a tremendous burden. Can anyone explain to me where a normal brain goes when it is unproductive?
No one on this planet would ever deem my brain as normal, but whenever I am completely unfocused, I am like a snail in a jitterbug contest. The world around me spins out of control and I am stuck watching a really bad “B” movie on repeat, and in slow motion.
Do you remember when school was out on a Friday afternoon as a kid? The bus ride home was the best feeling of freedom ever. Once home, you would change your clothes, jump on your bike, and ride like the wind wherever you wanted to go. That freedom was exhilarating – not a care in the world.
At my house, we knew that dinner would be on the table when Dad arrived home from work. We also knew we had better hightail it home when his car hit the driveway to eat or suffer Mom’s wrath.
Once dinner was finished, and our kitchen chores complete, we would head back outside to conquer the world yet again. Our only rule was to be home by the time the streetlights came on.
And all the while, we could not wait until we grew up. We, by gosh, would eat dinner anytime we wanted to. We wouldn’t have to abide by all the crappy rules of crabby old people. That, we thought, would be real freedom.
That purely naive innocence still makes me smile. I know you have all said, “Oh to be that young again.” If I could somehow find that sense of freedom as an adult, I really doubt that writing would be such a chore.
So why do I love it so much? Why does anyone thrive on something that can make them uncomfortable? I am guessing because, if only for a minute, it stops the insanity. It halts time in its tracks and allows the never-ending jumble of unequivocal personal doubt to waiver in limbo for a bit. And that, my friends, is bliss for me.
The funniest part of all of this is that these old bones couldn’t ride a bike like the wind if they tried. They hardly walk at a brisk pace. But the moral of this story is never forgotten – find peace of mind when and wherever it presents itself. Find the time for a chill pill and take refuge in its simplicity. Perhaps you too will find a story to write. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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