Sometimes I realize that my opinions are not the solid ground I thought I was standing on, but are closer akin to childhood toys: played with, rejected, loved, discarded, changed to have snazzy asymmetrical haircuts and crookedly home fashioned clothes, or kept, in the original box, with the original accessories, gathering dust as though I were still a child of ten who is obsessed with Babysitter Barbie’s lime green blow-up plastic babysitting chair.
And this terrifies me.
Sometimes I realize that I am holding an opinion the way I would realize that I am standing in the middle of the street holding someone else’s wombat—there is no logical reason for it, I’m not entirely sure where it came from and it could kill me, not out of malice, but simply because of its basic nature.
Sometimes I realize I am holding an opinion on one hand, and holding an opposite opinion on the other hand, as if I have eaten my cake and yet still possess it—something I acknowledge I am doing while at the same time asserting it to be impossible, creating a logical paradox that I could never possibly understand while holding a wombat.
And sometimes I realize that when I analyze my opinions, I begin to liken them to dolls and small furry creatures and baked goods to try to fathom what it is I am doing with them. But these analogies are not enough. An opinion is something that is driving my actions and controlling where I go, whether I am aware or not—something large and full of explosives. That is why the closest I can come to describing the danger of holding opinions is being a Babysitter Barbie lime green blow-up plastic babysitting chair obsessed ten year old holding a wombat in one hand and eating cake with the other, blissfully unaware of the fact that she is in sole control of a battle tank on full throttle.