I’ve had a lot of people ask me why I seem so happy.

Creative Commons license courtesy unsplash Orlova Maria

It reminds me of a story I recently heard. It was a ghost story in a collection edited by Roald Dahl. Called “On the Brighton Road” by Richard Middleton. A vagabond wakes in the frozen snow, and encounters what could either be a very sickly young man, or someone who’s telling the truth that he’s died many times. As the two venture down the road together, chatting, the vagabond is surprised to hear the other say “well, how do you know you didn’t die in the snow last night?”

It’s occurred to me more than once that I likely did die all those years ago, and am now awake in heaven.

At one low point, I dimly remember someone sharing a phrase with me:

“I believe that reality is a sublime comedy staged for my education and amusement, and there is a benevolent conspiracy to liberate me from my ignorance and help transform me into he unique masterpiece I was born to be.”

It’s not what awakened me, but gave me pause. Hey, it could be as true as any other viewpoint.

It’s at least plausible.