I am a thousand thoughts racing feverishly around in a brain filled with too many lists, too many clocks, too many people, too little time. A startled face appears when I look into a mirror and realize the person whose blue eyes look back at me looks nothing like the person running around in my head.
I think to myself, “Who are you and why are you looking at me like that?”
I am awash in wanting to make tangible all the racing thoughts, the flowing seeds of ideas, the recipes of change and reordering. I am often lost in a field of wanting to create and tangled in a sea of half-begun. Everything around me is a partially completed creation.
I am a procrastinator extraordinaire. I am afraid. I am committed to noncomittment. I hide behind all the thinking and not doing and am not merely hidden from others, but lost to myself.
“I am trying,” I tell the person looking back at me from the mirror, “someday all this trying will come to something.”
Then the person in the mirror asks, “Come to what?”
I answer with silence.
I have reached the age where it seems incomprehensible that I am still attempting to answer this question of who I am.
Shouldn’t I have more answers by now? Shouldn’t I have a book or two filled with answers?
Should I still keep asking the questions?