A Comfortable Fiction

We all rely on something to get through the rougher patches of our days. For some, it may be a substance. For others, it’s  action. Or humor. Or any number of other things.

But we all have something.

I have faith at my disposal. I have the most perfect, truest Reality on which to rely.

And yet so often, I catch myself bound up in a comfortable fiction.

Often this involves a modified retelling of someone else’s fiction, but at other times, it’s a fiction all my own.

That the Person who features most prominently in this personal fiction (other than myself) is an actual Person I know is a point of potential confusion. The Person I know is not, actually, the Person I imagine. I know this.

There is nothing between this Person and I. That has been explicitly spelled out. There is no confusion on this point.

This fiction is merely a habit of the mind, and one I need to break.

It’s not an elaborate fiction. A snippet of thought; a moment in time. An in-between thought that comes in-between places, in-between activities, in-between other thoughts.

Sometimes it is no more than the whisper of a name.

When I listen to myself – which I don’t do that often, honestly – I hear that the core feature of this fiction, aside from some nonsense about his arms around me, is that I am waiting.

I do not think of myself as a person who is waiting for anything. I go where I go and do what I do, on the principle that my life cannot wait on hold for some other occurrence. For some other Person. Least of all for this Person. Outside the comfortable fiction into which I mindlessly drift, I hold no illusions whatsoever on this point.

But then, the Person in my fiction is only fiction anyway.

There is a perfectly good Reality available to me. I would be better served by focusing there.

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~ by lorakceel on May 18, 2011.

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