I am a dreamer.
Often, I am told I “live in my head” as my mind wanders from topic to topic – tugging me in all directions – causing me to drift away from a conversation, or trail off in the middle of a sentence. Most find my meandering maddening – seeing it as a disconnectedness, a rudeness, while truly I am hard at work introducing my newly acquired thoughts to one of the many familiar thoughts that tumble about in my mind – searching for a connection, the promise of a new relationship. If only I could train my face, so it didn’t betray my wanderings.
I am a collector.
Like the BFG in Roald Dahl’s novel, I steal away into the night and collect things in secret. The BFG collects dreams; I collect other people’s thoughts – words. Breaking and entering into the minds of authors, poets, essayists, really anyone who hasn’t locked up their thoughts tightly – I collect kernels of advice, new perspectives, and ideas.
Gingerly, I hold the treasure in my hands, peering between my fingers – stealing a glimpse of its shimmering shape before placing it gently into a glass jar – labeled with its contents.
Residing on my shelf, my collection whispers to me – they want to be let out, to explore their new surroundings, live a new story. Patiently, they wait for my readiness to release them.
I am a wishful thinker.
Time is oppressive – its dictates and demands prevent me from releasing my ideas from their jars. If only I had more time…