View the original poem here.
Imagine you’re driving in an old Impala with four of your closest friends on a road trip across the United States.
“Let’s go to the Grand Canyon,” says your best friend, in the passenger seat.
You’ve hardly nodded your head in agreement when you hear called out from behind you “What about Mt. Rushmore?”
“I want to see the space needle!”
“It’s too cold there, let’s go to the Everglades!”
You tense up, frustrated by the dissonance. It’s going to be a very long car ride, especially if this continues.
But why do we find choices stressful, even when they lead to fun things?
My worst nightmare isn’t a monster chasing me, or falling to my death or being caught in my underwear in public.
I’m staring at blackness, my muscles feel muddled, I hear muffled voices.
I can’t move, like I’m stuck in lukewarm mollasses.
It’s a dream I can’t wake up from.