I take the plunge into the murky abyss of wandering thoughts and vague visions, like a little girl holding a net with a wooden handle, I try to catch the colourful butterflies fluttering above my head.
I fumble and fall with my first few attempts, not really getting even close to catching any of them. I adjust my grip, position my arm behind my back, and try to use the weight of the net as a force, to throw my arm forward in a swish motion that hopefully does the trick.
But it doesn’t.
I just sit there, staring in front of blank pieces of paper, with a pen in my left hand, thinking that adjusting my grip, my posture, or the place where my glass of water sits will help me catch the words that will flood the first few lines of the page.
I want to throw my hands up in surrender, to the pointlessness of it all, to the words I seem to think might change someone’s life forever – change my life forever. I want to give up and escape the frustration of fully understanding and knowing the impact you want to leave and not having one clue as to how to begin.
Is this where it ends?
A twenty-five year old know-it-all with nothing to show for except boldly successful first attempts that show signs of remarkable potential?
Is that where we end our story?
Potential is the manifestation of your out-of-this-world imagination?
That can’t be it. My dear, I hope not.
We do not know nor are we able to comprehend the extent of our capabilities. However, we will never get any closer to figuring it out by simply wondering at the possibility.