I get excited about exciting ideas.
I'm thrilled to have them, since until recently I didn't think I was creative.
I spend hours pouring out my heart and mind on them.
And then when it starts taking the form in which I'd like to express it, I stop.
Someone hits the brakes and we come to a screeching halt.
Suddenly, the world is not a safe place.
Pessimism abounds. Disheartened, prematurely jaded.
Months later, I look back at those unborn ideas with a pang.
So much potential, so much beauty, aborted.
Then a new idea is conceived and planning and celebrations begin.
The dead are never forgotten, always grieved.
It could be the idea of researching something I'm excited about learning. Like what it takes to thrive. After all the planning of research questions, there are no questions ever asked.
It could be the idea of writing a blog post on something I care deeply about. I first write something feverishly, really wanting it to come alive on paper and not get lost in my mind. I look again, and I see formless words. Its not effective, its pointless. I revive my spirit and give it another shot. This time its looking much better. I tear the old note apart, but before I've stitched it back together, I've moved on. I've conveniently run out of time and have other things to do. No one was going to read it anyway right? And even if they did, it would just be controversial.
It could be the idea of sharing the information and resources I've put together on mental health. Oh, that one died a long death. I spent so much time convincing myself it wasn't what I wanted. I convinced myself it wasn't meant to be. And yet it sits there, its little pieces that I lovingly put together one by one.
Its like parts of me that keep coming alive like beautiful fires, which I proceed to constantly extinguish. Fires are scary aren't they? But they keep coming back, relentlessly, to be born again and again and again, in different avatars. They can't be stopped. They won't be stopped.