Whether
we know it or not, most of us are on a crazy train, spiritually speaking. We
might not be going off the rails yet but we are blindly and unconsciously
putting our life experiences in the hands of an unknown Conductor.
But
the joke's on us.
We're
the Conductor.
Or,
we're supposed to be. And yet here we sit in the passenger car, seat-belted
into a worn yet still-plushy blue-gray seat, elbows atop on narrow, plastic arm
rests, feet on the retractable foot-rest that's bolted into the base of the
seat in front of us. Our eyes, two glazed orbs gazing out the window to a
blurry, image stew causing our brains to behave haphazardly, unable to focus,
thinking about anything and everything.
Sometimes
the Conductor stops and opens the doors to experiences donning the costumes of
whatever and whomever have made up our thoughts. Fortune, misfortune. Pleasure,
displeasure. Ease, disease. Wellness, hellness.
We
enjoy the company of fortune and pleasure and ease and wellness but we get
rather upset with the Conductor when misfortune, displeasure, disease, and
hellness respond to the, “All aboard!”
There
comes a time when we get so upset about these miscreants sharing the same car
as we that we unbuckle our seat belts, stand up confidently and stride, hands
placed alternately on the tops of the seat-backs as we pass so as to steady our
shaky convictions, up to the Conductor's door. We knock and slide the door
open.
The
Conductor is slumped its seat, unconscious, head resting slack against the
window, blue-and-white-striped hat askew. Alarmed, we shake the Conductor's
shoulder and groggily the head swivels toward us, revealing a bit of drool in
the corner of the mouth and suddenly we are face-to-face with ourselves. With a
start we back away because how.can.this.be.?
It's
only then we notice the tennis ball-sized red light that's blinking on the
dashboard. The white text on its surface reads, “Auto Pilot.”
To be continued...
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