Here's A Little Tip For You. If

I Weaned Myself On The Nostalgia Equivalent Of Methadone (less Addictive, Less Obvious, Less Likely To Make You Crazy): Missing What I Had Never Had.

I Have Always Been Caught By The Pull Of The Unremarkable, By The Easily Missed, Infinitely Nourishing Beauty Of The Mundane.

Being Easily Freaked Out Comes With Its Own Special Skill Set: You Develop Subtle Tricks To Work Around It, Make Sure People Don't Notice. Pretty Soon, If You're A Fast Learner, You Can Get Through The Day Looking Almost Exactly Like A Normal Human Being.

Real Isn't What They Try To Tell You. Time Isn't. Grown-ups Hammer Down All These Markers, Bells, Schedules, Coffee-breaks, To Stake Down Time So You'll Start Believing It's Something Small And Mean, Something That Scrapes Flake After Flake Off Of Everything You Love Till There's Nothing Left; To Stake You Down So You Don't Lift Off And Fly Away, Somersaulting Through Whirlpools Of Months, Skimming Through Eddies Of Glittering Seconds, Pouring Handfuls Of Hours Over Your Upturned Face.

I've Got This Theory That Human Beings Are Innately Religious; We Have A Belief System. It Doesn't Have To Be A Theist Form, Necessarily. But We Need A Belief System, Some Framework On Which To Hang Our Behavior.