A retired recluse, the best part of my day is climbing the stairs to my loft office. I crest at the comic book rack, set the hot mocha on a post, trigger the duck lamp & melt five decades of struggle.
Pre-dawn darkness, splashed with amber lamplight, tease shadows of mementos, whispering memories, verifying the journey.
This life -- MY life -- hugs me. It’s just the way I dreamed it. It’s just the way I manifested it.
What a beautiful world.
Now all that struggle, all that action, is just a dream we call memory.
My most comfortable default reverie is “mornings.”
Paper routes. Bakeries. Coffee candles. Oldie playlists. Sleeping dogs & cats. Amber lamps & dark loft offices. Warm, loving feelings.
Then I sit at the computer. Lash my higher self safely to the desk chair. And tepidly open a window to the outside world.
I’m ready for my Two Minutes of Hate.
Stock futures down $600.
Truckers circling D.C.
More vax lies exposed.
I pause. Double check my connection to the chair. Slowly turn my focus knob to “global view.”
I write a “wake-up” post about the families who own the central banks being the root of all planetary trouble & evil.
Satisfied, I reflect.
Will these words ever actually wake anyone up? Probably not. So I file the post away, likely never to see daylight again.
And turn my focus knob back to “mornings.”
The magic of writing, like central banks, is that I can create anything out of thin air.
Like all power, it can be used for good or evil. Inspiration or attack. Love or hate.
The bandwidth of the human focus knob is astounding.
The smallest turn makes such huge difference.
I can focus on the miracle of a perfectly dipped chocolate donut or focus on the cause of global Armageddon.
But only one causes the feeling of joy.
Today, I choose the donut.
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