From the time I could question myself, I did, and often. Why do I think the things I do? Why do I do the things I do? Where will they take me? Will those places be worth the journey? Do I have a choice? Is my star-path already aligned or can I guide myself using the discrepancy I've cultivated through all of the thinking of these things?
And does it matter at all that I wonder?
Through my years of torment and my equal time in places of content, these questions have haunted me. An answer to the last, at least, has made itself clear. Does it matter at all that I wonder? Yes, it most certainly does, to me. And as we are all merely specks of dust caught up the related web of something grander, held weightless by our desire to be held amongst the familiar, what is important to me must touch another, at some point in some time.
What a Difference a Day Makes
Days go by that are countless. Unhinged from the one before and strangers to the next, but once in a while, if I pay attention, a world comes and goes within 24 hours. At times today is nothing but a simile of days and days gone by, but one moment happens and a new dawn breaks, even at dusk. The marching in of a merging of beings within me takes place and the battle that is always on, is won, by both of me.
The Battle of the Real and the Whimsical
The real me is the me that walks outside my door each day, on full alert for the evil transpiring on every corner. As that me, my spidy senses tingle as I pass you on the street. Whatever horrible twist of fate from the car that could be running me down to the creep who watches me will be one step behind me, for I am ever anticipating the doom. It's the way to survival and the way to squeezing out every last ounce of life available to me.
The real me teaches my children to adapt to their surroundings. To not be afraid of the unknown until it depicts a clear and present danger to their well being. To welcome science as a lesson in their unending search for the facts. To use all that is accessible to them and not to overuse it. The real me studies the statistics and obtains from them the tools required to live life to its utmost potential.
And the whimsical me still believes in fairytales. It still sees the good in everyone. It is the me that promises, when I'm not sure I can deliver. It's the me that runs up behind you and gives you back the 20 dollar bill you dropped. The whimsical me will offer you my seat, open the door for you, engage you in conversation just because I can see you need to talk.
The whimsical me teaches my kids to do the right thing, even when it's hard to do. Especially when it's hard to do. The whimsical me wishes on falling stars, wishing that all of my children's wishes will come true. It buys them treats at the store when I'm counting pennies to stay within budget. It watches movies and convinces me that I am the heroin of the story. It bakes stiff, horrible cherry pies that my family eats so as not to hurt me. And it counts for something every day. Indeed, it counteracts the cynical me.
The pessimistic me is tamed by the purely cheerful me, albeit willingly.
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