Brain knots. Thought tangles. Spaghetti mind.
I have used all three of those terms in the last week to describe the heavy cramping feeling invading my head space. I have an itchy feeling it’s what they call “stress,” although I normally refer to these episodes as an existential crisis. I’m not old enough for midlife ones yet.
It has been one of those fun weeks where I felt, upon driving home late one night, that I could split myself into five different people. They would each have the dreams and drive they needed to live their lives. The likes, dislikes, passions and intentions that could take up every one of those elusive 24 hours in a day. But I can’t split myself into five people, and all those thoughts and dreams and intentions collided into a giant stress-ball in my one brain.
I think this must be a common feeling, because there are six billion people in the world, and I’m sure a lot of them are like me. All those decisions and indecisions and the desires pulling you every which way like a personal hurricane.
So what do you want to be when you grow up?
A scientist, artist, traveler, entertainer, woodcarver, builder, gardener, gamer? Because I think I would choose every single one of those if I could, and believe me, the list goes on.
But that’s the beauty of choosing to be a writer. I am going to take all of those things, I’m going to bundle them into a great big ball and I will spend the rest of my life telling the stories of where all they take me.
Now hold me to it.