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There’s something happening with me that’s difficult to explain. For the last three years or so, a good portion of my emotional and mental energy is focused on the past. My dreams during slumber at night take me off into experiences I’ve had years gone by. And the confusing thing is that they are patchworks of a variety of experiences, woven into single stories with individual elements that have nothing to do with each other. People, places, times of joy, pain and suffering separated by years are mixed into some weird cauldron where non-related elements are interacting with each other. The amazing thing is these distinctly different elements function as though they are familiar with each other, and they aren’t behaving, in the least bit, that they were from various times in my past. I often wake in the morning wondering why this is happening. One thing I can say for certain is that these nighttime, mental theatrical productions are of epic quality. Hollywood could learn a thing or two from the production quality.

Is my subconscious somehow experiencing short circuits or is this common for someone my age. I’ve had seventy decades plus to accumulate countless stories; stories that have allowed me to be involved in the entire inventory of human emotions that has been existed since creation. Speaking of emotions, yesterday was my mother’s birthday. She has been dead now for four years as of this past July 5. I sat down at my keyboard to right something about her yesterday; but I found myself too emotionally stirred to move thoughts to keyboard. At the end of yesterday, I asked myself why was such an emotionally experience was visited upon me. I yet have an answer today. This has not happened to me before, during the last four years mom has been gone. I posted a piece about mom April 8, 2019: Momma – oldblessedwordpresscom. This recounts some thoughts I had during her Alzheimer’s experiences.

I know many of us tend to romanticize about days of old. I suppose the more days one has, the more the collection of romanticized stories are chronicled in your brain. Or is the sheer weight of all these thoughts so overpowering that they simply assume authority of what’s going on in those cobb-webbed infested brains of ours? I don’t think I’m in need of psychiatry services at this point. If I ever do, I won’t know that they’re needed. Chris is standing at the ready. I’m sure she’ll do what’s necessary should professional services be required. Until then, I’ll keep enjoying the shows of days gone by.

The old stuff of life, of the world, of my individual experiences just seem more substantial than the fare dished out during these current microchip, digitized times. I can smell and touch a paper book, but nothing of my library contained on my Kindle, where there’s no real-life texture.

I’m old and blessed…hope you will be too.