Sometimes, I find myself trapped in the confinements of the most toxic, uninspiring, fear-filled place I know:
The power of thought is amazing. It grips you, frees you, cripples you and makes you imagine the most unimaginable things. This, my friends, is both good and bad. In my mind, I am able to do great things. Like stand on a balcony overlooking the Aegean Sea, dive the depths next to a Manta Ray, huff and puff my way up the Macchu Picchu, perform in front of thousands on Broadway or write an epic novel from a tent in Africa.
The problem is, in my mind, I worry about the death of a loved one, of being alone and unloved, of dying horribly in a plane crash or getting stuck in a massive traffic jam for days and days. Ah yes, the mind is a funny thing.
Most days, these days, I listen to the worries. I live on the edge of Paranoia Street and Panic Avenue. I'm one step away from being the Mayor actually. I'm so contented living in my head that it makes zero sense to take a risk in Reality Land.
I take occasional trips to silver-screen fantasies and fantasy-spun tales of travelers, lovers, witches and monkeys. These places are safe to me. I am in control with a touch of the remote or flip of a page. I can skip to the happy parts, the parts where people are rescued or find enlightenment, and problems are solved after a song and dance.
And then I retreat back to the dimly-lit, damp but cozy corner of my mind. It's probably sunnier out there but for now, I'll just open the windows and enjoy the view from where I am.
Plus, it's rent-free.