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I guess I’m sort of panicking right now. There’s no emergency, at least not in my life, but I have too much energy and not enough structure – panic ensues. So if it’s not an emergency, what is going on?

You could call it an identity crisis, or maybe a crisis of faith–but not the bad kind. No, this is the crisis where you wake up and don’t recognize yourself in the mirror–because you haven’t seen yourself as the person you want to be in a long time. Today’s reflection isn’t who I was yesterday, but that’s a peachy step in the right direction.

This is only a crisis insofar as I wasn’t expecting it, and it’s a lot to get hit with early in the morning–but since I’m here, I’m going to run with it for as long as I can.

So who do I want to be? The majority of that answer I’ll leave up to fate and my impending track record, but what I do know is that I want to read, to write, to learn, to exercise, and to make.

I want to read. It’s been years since I’ve really read a book for leisure. Hell, it’s been a while since I’ve done anything for leisure, so let’s change that and start with reading. Now, since a large part of what I do is “information processing”, I read–but it’s all ops info, logistics, strategy, and buzzwords. Sure, I see pieces of fiction occasionally, but that’s usually neither fun nor intentional. No, I want to read.

Forget Webster’s, here’s my dictionary definition:

reading (verb): making the conscious, dedicated effort to lose yourself and your world in the pages of someone else’s grand reality. It’s the commitment of all your emotional capacities to love, hate and fear, to sympathize, to rage, to despair, and more, and that commitment is made before you even crack the spine on this pocket universe. Reading is exhausting, liberating, and–if done well on the part of all involved–truly haunting.

This is what I want for myself–to be possessed by the knowledge and passions of these undying pocket universes.

I want to write. Sure, I can regurgitate ink well enough to put food on the table, but that’s an emotional net-zero. No, true writing is a beautiful, terrifying form of art powerful enough that the mere passing thought of what I believe it can do to my soul is unspeakable; writing is, ultimately, indescribable in its own medium. But. I want to contribute to my worlds, the reality in which we live and the creative one locked in my head, locked behind a previous inability to put words on the damn page. I want to give more of me than just myself, I want to give my mind.

I want to learn, and I want to exercise. Are these two sides of the same coin: theory, and practice? Or are they one and the same–raging at the unknown until it reveals itself? For me, exercise is about becoming fit by pushing my physical boundaries as far as possible. Why should the same not apply to my mind?

Finally, I want to make, but that is as far as I’ve felt out on the matter. Are there specific, tangible things I want to make? Yes, more than I can count, and there’s the trick. It’s not that I have one small thing trying to claw its way into existence; it’s that I have these flocks of ideas I’ve just been sitting on for years. I want to make, not as a constructive act, but as the destruction of my barriers, of my fears and my meandering laziness. I want to “make” as opposed to “wait.”


What does this mean for “We’ll See”?

I’m not going to make any wide-sweeping promises (again), but you will see activity here and on the other blogs (including a couple special ones) for as long as this streak lasts. I’ll be trying new things, and there will be more of a story to tell. Here’s to hoping that story makes it onto the page.