This is also an apology to Emily Scavuzzo because it's less than interesting.
I believe I've had a realization that I am perfectly mentally healthy and that it's my inner monologue has ADD. It's true. And I don't know if it's a reflection of reading a lot of one of my favorite authors (Donald Miller). When I read Mr. Miller, I feel like I'm just reading a text version of his inner monologue. The latest chapter I'm reading of A Million Miles in a Thousand Years talks about Mr. Miller meeting some people who want to make a memoir of his life. Reading his experiences just makes me think of my own inner monologue going throughout my normal day.
Getting to the point: I was sitting here at my rented house watching Intervention, I wondered out loud to my roommate, "Is it wrong to watch this show while having a drink?" My inner monologue suddenly piped in, "What a paradox!"
After the show, I was sitting on the porch and of course my inner monologue was thinking about the Intervention show and how really hopeless the situations are with some of these subjects. I was also thinking about the immense love (selfish or genuine) these family members had about these subjects. My inner monologue then progressed to the fundamental question of the human experience, "What is life for?"
The subject of this show, after much bullheadedness, accepted the gift of treatment only to find out that he had esophageal cancer. He went home to get cancer treatment and died three weeks later. The guy's son said how his sober father got to watch his last basketball game of the season. He said something to the effect that he was at least happy his dad died sober.
My inner monologue went to a dark place. All the questions of the meaning of life and what am I doing with my life came to be pretty loud statements. It can be pretty dismal.
Then, within a second of those thoughts, I thought of my weekend. I got to go see my favorite band perform with a group of good, good friends. We sat through hours of down-pouring rain. We waded through the mud puddles in our flip-flops to get back to our campsite just to get rained upon again. We shared lots and lots of laughs. We watched a wonderful performance (Dave Matthews Band) with the sun in our faces. We (ok, more so I) sang our lungs out.
Thankfully, my inner monologue took an Aderall or smoked a J; and reminded me that there are balances to everything. No matter how good and bad. No matter how joyous and painful. No matter our status; no matter our environment; no matter our upbringing, there is a balance to it all. And, most importantly, there is beauty in our smallest of interactions, our choices and our experiences. Lots and lots of beauty.
