That thought was enough to make me wake up. However, I purposely rolled over and went back to sleep without getting up to look, for the simple reason that if it was real, I wanted no part of it.
(Yes, I know it’s not real. But a part of me, especially the dreaming part, still believes there is magic in stories. That all stories are in some way real. Thank Heinlein’s The Number of the Beast for that.)
I love the Doctor Who shows. I’ve been watching them since I was a kid and watched the Tom Baker episodes with my Dad. I even made one of those ridiculous long scarves for my brother. My husband has it now, but keeps forgetting that it’s there, so it still doesn’t get used. I’d love to see someone wear it.
Anyway, I digress.
I love the Doctor Who shows. They are wonderful combinations of the sublime and the silly, horror and hope. I keep having to wash my glasses because I cry for almost every episode. But the world they portray… How to explain it?
The world of the Doctor is full of hope, but it’s also full of danger. It’s exciting, but also enormously sad. Bad things are happening ALL.THE.TIME.
Imagine being in a world that asked that you run towards the burning building all the time. That asked you to choose on a regular basis who lives and who dies. Can you imagine it? Wouldn’t that be hard? It would be hard for me.
We all want to be the person who runs into the burning building, who rushes in to save the day. But are we? Running towards danger, stepping up and helping others is a hard choice. Fear and indecision get in the way of heroics both small and large all the time.
Jumping in the TARDIS and traveling the length and breadth of space and time with the Doctor would be amazing. And terrifying.
Would you choose to join him if he asked, or would you choose to be safe?
Last night, on the edge of sleep, I chose to be safe.