Hidden

You cannot think through my  mind, nor can I think through yours.  This is a terrible dilemma.  Not so much the fact that I can’t think through your mind, but that you can’t think through mine. If only you could, you would see things from the proper perspective.  Mine.

I am kidding.  Just a bit.

If you could think through my mind, you would understand why the music of Cat Stevens and Leonard Cohen and Brandi Carlile and John Hiatt and even Dolly Parton can reduce me to tears.

If you could think through my mind, you would understand why I am fascinated by serious assertions that plants may well communicate with one another.

You would understand why I find stone more attractive than brick.

You would understand why I would rather risk the dissolution of the United States than accept societal regimentation in the extreme.

You would comprehend the confusion that rips through my brain every day, whipsawing my mind between radical left-wing crusader and crushingly angry right-wing pig.

You would love the tranquility of living far, far away from other people.  You would ache for human companionship and proximity.  You would be willing to drop the guillotine to sever the heads of death penalty proponents in order to stop the madness of putting people to death for unspeakable crimes.

You would acknowledge the sanctity of marital fidelity while condemning social and legal prohibitions against extramarital sex.

But, of course, you cannot think through my mind.  You cannot understand, from my perspective, the conflicting ideas that reside there.  You cannot experience my emotional extremes that cause night sweats and shrieks and screams and laughs and bellows of rage and hatred and love.

You are fortunate, indeed.  But, then, I may be just as fortunate.  Because I cannot think through your mind.  I cannot experience the terrors that you hide therein.  Maybe that’s as it should be.   Maybe not.