I’ve made a lot of choices in my life.
Little ones, big ones. Life-shaping ones, conscious and subconscious ones.
And looking back now…
I can honestly say—
I made most of them under the influence.
No!
Not of drugs.
Not of alcohol.
But of something just as powerful—
and far more invisible.
I didn’t know it at the time.
But I was intoxicated.
By my thoughts.
By my emotions.
By the nonstop chatter of my mind.
I will not try to untangle every thread of that mental noise today.
But we are going to talk about how seriously we take it.
How we believe everything it says.
How we turn thoughts into emotions…
emotions into decisions…
And those decisions affect the lives we end up living.
Beneath all of that?
It was like a factory.
My mind—
a nonstop production line.
Churning out stories, judgments, fears, regrets…
Twenty-four seven.
Day shift. Night shift.
No holidays.
And the kicker?
I believed everything it made.
Every sad story? Truth.
Every fear? Reality.
Every judgment of me or someone else? Absolute fact.
That factory was loud.
It was powerful.
And I never once questioned if the assembly line needed to shut down.
I was even in a car accident once.
I wasn’t drunk.
I wasn’t texting.
I was just… distracted.
By my mind in full production mode—
a hundred thoughts at once.
Arguments. Regrets. Fantasies. Fears.
I wasn’t in my body.
I wasn’t in the moment.
I was inside the factory.
And I crashed.
Now… that crash was real.
But it was also symbolic.
A mirror of how I’d been living.
Under the influence.
Of thoughts I didn’t choose.
Of emotions, I never stopped to question.
I lived like every feeling was a fact.
Every thought was actual.
Every belief? Law.
And when the factory created pain, I clung to it.
When it came to blame, I pointed fingers.
When it pumped out self-pity, I played the victim.
And begged for validation.
But here’s what I’ve come to see:
Just because the factory produces it—
doesn’t mean I have to buy it.
Not everything it makes belongs in my life.
Now, I’m in my 60s.
You’d think I’d know better, right?
And some days—I do.
But the factory still runs.
It still makes noise.
It still ships out those same old thoughts and stories.
The difference now?
I walk.
I meditate.
I breathe.
I watch my mind—
instead of living inside it.
Some days, I see the thoughts coming down the belt,
and I smile and say,
“Oh, hey… you’re at it again.”
And I keep walking.
Now, my friends, that
is freedom.
I may never shut the factory down completely.
But I know now—
I don’t have to live under its influence anymore.
And that?
That’s my kind of crazy.
Take the time to contemplate!
Tell me, what’s your crazy?
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