All day I am filled with ideas. All day I rail against the prison of my occupied time. All day I despair over the lack of time to complete my dreams. When the day is done, when the bell tolls and I am free once more, I wallow. I drown in nothing and I ignore my previous complaints. I allow my own dreams to suffer. I am the cause of my own despair. From time to time I piece one or two words together, and I call it art. It satisfies my selfish soul for a time. I relish in it, and then I forget it.
Am I worthy of my dream? I fill my idle prison with tapestries of what could be, if only I had the time. I fill my head with the ideals of a possible future, but I do nothing to reach it. I sit in the driver’s seat. I mash the gas pedal and I listen to the engine scream and chirp as the needle bounces off the red line. I never put the transmission into gear. I listen to the sound of what could be speed, but I never take off.
The question that fills your head, undoubtedly, is why. I know because it fills my head, too. Why thrash against a cage and then, when the door is unlocked, sit in the grass outside the cage and twiddle your thumbs, staring up at the black sky, biding your time until you wander back into the cage. Why? Fear? An easy answer, to be sure. Of what? Failure? We can’t say failure because every minute, every hour I waste makes me the failure that I have become. To avoid the fear of failure would be to try. So what am I avoiding? Trying? Effort? Disappointment? All these and more, to be sure. All these and more.
I can’t tell anyone, I can’t talk to anyone, because I am sick of hearing their infernal solutions. I am sick of hearing the answers I already know. I have not heard useful information in so long that I cannot even stand the thought of hearing it again. But I cannot stand the thought of feeling this weight for the rest of my life.
So what do I do?
