“You got a lifetime. No more. No less.” ~ Neil Gaiman
“He was walking into Faerie, in search of a fallen star, with no idea how he would find the star, nor how to keep himself safe and whole as he tried. He looked back and fancied that he could see the lights of Wall behind him, wavering and glimmering as if in a heat-haze, but still inviting.” ~ Neil Gaiman, Stardust
“For fantasy is true, of course. It isn’t factual, but it’s true. Children know that. Adults know it too and that’s precisely why many of them are afraid of fantasy. They know that its truth challenges, even threatens, all that is false, all that is phony, unnecessary, and trivial in the life they have let themselves be forced into living. They are afraid of dragons because they are afraid of freedom.” ~ Ursula K. Le Guin
Judging by today’s opening quotes, I am in the mood for fantasy. Something ultimately – in the grand scheme of things (I’m not really sure what that means) – petty is weighing heavy on me right now. Fantasy is a good escape valve, to let off some of the pressure, lest it render you a nitwit, or something worse. So what kind of fantasy, I wonder. That’s a good word: wonder. It perfectly describes what kind of fantasy is best for the times. Wonder is a necessary element of life. Now, I could go all dark here, but one thing to remember about chronic depression is that the process (and it is a process) will likely cast things as darker than they actually are, or need be. But if the depressive fantasy happens to come true? Don’t fool yourself, you’ve had plenty of practice in dealing with troubles. Imagined or otherwise. That’s my lecture to myself this morning. I’ve got a general feeling of yuck, going strong. Somehow I am not near as concerned about this passage as I think I should be. And I am not actually sure that thinking has much to do with it. Habitual thoughts sputter and snarl when thing get tough. It is something about having PTSD, and having taken the time to research what that is, and what it means . . . well, let’s just say that I see it as something akin to what paranormal investigators call a “residual haunting”. Whatever or whoever is doing the haunting ain’t much more than an old tape loop, played back on a really crappy old holographic projector. But one trouble with PTSD is that when triggered it becomes all too real, as if a snapshot of trauma is not good enough, it has to come alive. The body flushes with adrenaline, and then cortisol; muscles tighten and roar; digestive track all but stops dead in its tracks; the brain delegates, under pressure, most functions to the brain stem and limbic system. Act, react, fight, flight, panic, hide, or maybe just space out for protection. I’m pretty good at that last one. Sigh. I have a massage this afternoon, and she will have plenty to work with. Ouch. Plus, I always enjoy her company and our chats. She is darned good at what she does as well. In the meantime, I’m in and out of that space out thing. That will have to do for now.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.