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I’m known to be drawn to morbid things. I’ve known this about myself since I was a kid. We would head to Jackson and hit WaldenBooks where I would get the latest book on Bigfoot, ghosts, Stephen King if I was lucky, UFOs or the like. My mother was a woman who believed as long as I was reading, then she was fine with letting me read pretty much whatever I wanted to. I was smitten by things that I didn’t understand, and better yet, to things that I felt that I must figure out.

But, alas, you can’t always have an answer to such things that we cannot see. So I read because I had a visual in my mind of what is and what could be.

Over time, things changed a bit and I went through my Holden Caulfield and Scout from “To Kill A Mockingbird” phase. Works done far before I was born that caused me to go through those feeling in adolescence that I was perhaps not alone.  Scout’s small town filled with images I readily knew, and Caulfield’s reasoning that we were impaled by our imperfections which we refused to acknowledge. When I was in my mid-teens, I went throw a fiery John Irving phase, although that lasted only for a brief period of time.

I’m easing toward 5,000 posts on this blog, although I’m not there quite yet. As I was recently perusing some older posts I realized that I write about death quite a bit as well as paranormal alternatives. My brother-in-law told me recently that I was one morbid person, thus the word in the first sentence.

I don’t think I’m necessarily ghoulish, I think I’m curious at best. Why do people do what they do? And, we are born into this world alone thus we die the same way. No one can do these things for us.

Why do people do what they do?

I don’t have an answer.