You wanna know what makes me mad about myself? I am a collector. Not of anything cool, like tea cups, hippos or key chains. Nope, I collect ideas. I have loads of ideas, information, incentive and little nuggets of groundbreaking goodness. I’m fascinated by ideas and words.
I get distracted. Then I’ll read about better ideas and different view points. And I’ll start again. But then I get distracted. I consume information. I consume advice. I consume cookies. And that’s no good either. I am a consumer and not a creator.
I could be a creator. But it’s more comfortable in the consumer category, because then I can be a criticizer. If I become the creator, then I become the object of criticism. So I eat cookies. That action seems to stay consistent.
I am a starter and stopper of creative ideas. I am a consumer of recycled imagination. I really want to create but I can’t break the consuming habit. You know what feeds me? Twitter. You thought I was going to say cookies. Twitter.
It’s a mind field of mental consumerism. It’s a lifeline to idea junkies. I begin my day with twitter. For the rest of my day, my mind whirls and spins with possibilities and new links and websites to read.
Meanwhile, my hands atrophy from lack of use. My heart is weary from pumping blood to only the possibilities of what could be instead of the heart and soul of who I am.
How can I step off this carousel of entertainment and enlightenment so I can generate something equally entertaining and enlightening? How can I willfully step away from this circus that intravenously feeds me with someone elses thoughts? What will I create without the background whir of carousel music and pinball machines?
What if I can’t create? What if all there is to me is the fading laughter of the circus clown who laughs at my creation?