But I can't stop. I'm addicted.





As much as I think about how much I would benefit from not thinking, I can't help fantasizing. I wonder what it would be like to have a garden and cook dinner with the fruits of my labor. I wonder what it would be like to be paid lot of money for my personal insight. I wonder what it would be like if I were an architect or an auto mechanic. Better still, I wonder what it would be like to race pickup trucks.

Of course, I still wonder what it would be like to pursue my youthful dream of being a chik (notice this is not the same spelling as the term for a young chicken) drummer. I'd be Ms.-drunk-a-lot, and I'd have lots of memerable conversations I couldn't recall. I guess dreams change over time. Or perhaps I realized my dream didn't turn out exactly how I planned, and I learned to choose a different dream.

But I like to think that my dream found me. I like to think that all that is was meant to be. Maybe that's apathetic, but maybe it's exactly that kind of thinking that keeps me feeling youthful. The only thing I know for sure is that I haven't decided. I'm not in any hurry. I could ponder this until the day I meet my urn.

And no, that's not morbid—it's realistic.

photo by: LL