I remember one thing Jesus in my head told me back when I was in that old apartment, those years ago, before I was kicked out of it: "Work is magic." Only years later did that phrase make sense to me, after I had my first breakthrough that made me sane again, after the whole of my first, prolonged madness. You see, I became so very used to failure, of not being good enough — that in everything I tried to do I fell flat on my face, in the real world or the world in my head — that I was amazed by everything.
Let me explain further: in the simple act of pouring myself a glass of water, I was amazed that I could do it without spilling the entire contents of the bottle all over the place. That I could walk without falling over. And even more amazing was the idea of complex machines, like cars, which had all these hundreds of things acting in unison to propel you forward, or a computer, which had millions of switches all in harmony so that I could pull up the simplest page of the internet. All of it, all of it was a wonder. "Work is magic."
It faded, of course, faded like all kinds of childlike wonder must fade, I guess. Strange, though, how things are revealed like that.
