Truth, Lies and Mr Darcey

Some days I think a lot, analysing my feelings, over and over, over and over.

And over and over.

There are books out there that will explain exactly why and how what I'm doing is not beneficial. I've probably ready many of them, only to cast aside the half-read literature before moving on to the next must-read read on my Amazon wish list. I'm well versed at reading, choosing to forget to put into practice the well-crafted words, and then metaphorically sticking pins in my eyes when I realise I've fallen asleep AGAIN.

The dream is so vivid and so believable, I'm living it.

For my benefit I'm going to go over the basics again...

I hear something. Or see something. I have a point of view about it. It's not the truth, merely a point of view. Mine. And this is where I forget to take responsibility - it's mine and there is and an overwhelming likelihood that it's not the exact point of reference for any other person alive (da-dah!).

From this position I create a judgement, then pictures and thoughts, building to a story. It's not real. Hear me? It's not real. But my imagination is sometimes so creative, working in technicolour and stringing whole scenes together I begin to believe this costume drama is the truth. It's like believing that Colin Firth really is Mr Darcy... and suddenly I have turned into a Bridget Jones neurotic.

If feelings are just a chemical/electrical reaction in response to thoughts then they're easily manipulated and there is never any reason to think/feel anything other than happy. Duh!

Sometimes, however, life just gets in the way. Some days I feel sad.

Aum x