There's this delightfully depressing Ingrid Michaelson song in my head. The lyric currently floating around my spaghetti-noodle brain is "I want to change the world, instead I sleep."
I can relate.
Now that I'm writing a book [starting this week, eek] for my novel class, I feel this strange sort of empowerment. My fingertips hold such potential. Like a fluttering bird trapped in cage, waiting to be released into the wild. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.
With each keystroke,
I begin to wonder whose life is going to be changed by reading
my oh-so-engaging thoughts.
And then I realize, I'm getting just a tinsy bit [like miles and miles]
ahead of myself.
You see, there's this disconnect.
And I'm not really sure why or when exactly it happens, but we all say that we
want to do big, big things with our lives. [Ingrid Michaelson wants to change the world,
I want to create great books.]
Yet, we find ourselves unable to make this happen.
This aspiration of ours suddenly melts like pink cotton candy in our mouths.
We say we want something. We have a dream, but
we can't seem to go about actually DOING it.
We are too lazy, or unmotivated, or something.
Even in making the outline of this novel, I feel drained.
I yawn at my computer screen just thinking about all the late nights
I'm going to be spending trying to create a brilliant plot.
I feel overwhelmed at my goal, and I haven't even started.
So my question, Ingrid, is if we all want to change the world,
[in whatever sort of way] why can't we?
I think the only one stopping us, is us.