I’m feeling weird … I’m nostalgic over things that have never happened.

I sit in a comfy chair writing a paper as the rain whips against the windows, and I think, If only I could go back to that cabin and be writing that novel again. I was so productive then.

Never mind the fact that there never was that “then” for me.

And I thought back to that same cabin when my grandchildren used to gather around me and I would tell them stories and we would snuggle and drink cocoa. The blankets, the warmth, the solidarity. The good old days.

Except for the small part in which this never happened.

I don’t understand! Am I going crazy?

Freud would have a heyday with this.


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