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Perhaps I’ve watched a bit too many sci-fi shows. Perhaps I’m just looking to find an excuse for my brain after I’ve managed to exclude certain thoughts about certain people that shall remain nameless.
Which was the whole reason behind starting a new blog. Dropping the proverbial baggage at the back door and walking into a new, clean environment. That’s what I planned on doing.
Once there was a time when all I asked was not to think about negative crap before I got out of bed in the morning. I finally achieved this a couple months ago. The next goal was to get through an entire day without thinking about it. I’ve almost managed that. Of course, it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy when you look at the clock at 9 pm and say “Hey! I haven’t thought about…shit! Now I’ve thought about it!”
But this morning? This morning was a full on PTSD “reach into your brain and pull it out your nose” experience. Walking the dogs, I swear I stepped into someone else’s head. Someone else’s thoughts. When I was a kid I was kicked by a horse once and on another occasion, accidently hit by a baseball bat. That was the sensation that I had this morning. There was a disturbance in the force.
The weirdest thing is, it wasn’t thoughts from my perspective. It was thoughts about me. About the kids. Like I suddenly had access to Malkovich’s head.
There is nothing more bizarre than snapping back to yourself and having your two dogs looking up at you as if to say “Dude? Your aura is purple right now, what the hell is going on?”
I have three people in my life that I have felt this kind of connection to. None of them were ever married to me. I will have days out of the blue when I think about them for hours, mulling over thoughts or questions, wondering how they’re doing, et cetera. I have even gone so far as to mention after a half our or so of rumination, “So and so will call me today.” As of yet, I have never been wrong.
Occam’s Razor would state that the simplelist explanation is correct. Two months of burying anxiety came out to bite me in the ass. While never being a diagnosed crack pot, my pottery must have developed some cracks this morning. That is what the rational mind would say.
But since this was so completely different, so completely outside of my own emotions. I have to entertain the thought that there was a disturbance in someone else’s force this morning as well.
Which led me to spend a few minutes concentrating on my belly button on the way to work. If I am indeed a newly inducted Jedi, I would like to send a message right back to the universe:
“Perhaps you should call someone who gives a shit…”
Now, to fashion that hat out of tin foil. I hear it reflects psychic energies. That’s what they have President Kennedy’s head wrapped in as they keep him hidden in that bunker in the pentagon since, you know, he’s still alive. Elvis told me so.