I'm really good at living in my head.
Like, really good.
If it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something, then I think I've reached master status. And I'm not tooting my own horn here. God-forbid my uncensored thoughts ever turn into a book or a movie...but if they did...
Epic monologues. Daring adventures. Wild dance parties. Last-minute plane rides. Life-changing conversations. Universe-shattering questions. Heart-wrenching moments. Soul-searching silence.
They're the kind of scenes that get you all riled up inside: making you want to chase a breathtaking sunset as it dips beneath the horizon, run around like a fool in the rain, or kiss an absolute stranger because life is just so dang beautiful.
Then there's the somber scenes that set you back: the scenes that leave you silent and staring at the wall, hazy and distracted throughout the day, or sobbing because life is just so dang hard.
Living in your head is easy.
You're in control (for the most part). No one can tell you what to do. No one can judge you for thinking something stupid. You be anyone and do anything. No holds barred.**
But there's a cost. And it sucks.
I was chilling at my favorite coffee shop this afternoon when this dawned on me.
You know that feeling you get in the theater right after you watch one of those great, real-life, soul-moving movies at the theater? The final scene fades out and the credits start to roll and you can't move because it was so good? On top of that: the people around you start talking and you're quietly upset because they're more concerned about food than contemplating and appreciating the raw beauty and implications of the film they just watched? (This is a huge pet-peeve for me, by the way)
That feeling sticks in your gut as you walk down the theater steps, toss your empty Slurpee cup and popcorn bag into the trash, use the bathroom, and walk through the lobby.
But then, depending on the movie, something happens when you're somewhere between 75-150 steps away from your car. That strong, life-changing feeling starts to fade with every step. You fight to hold on to it – reminding yourself of the critical scenes and blurbs of conversation that rocked you – but, by the time you're at your car door and the key is in the ignition, you
notice it's not as prevalent.
The feeling dissipates with each passing mile until, finally, you walk in the front door and are greeted by a sink full of dirty dishes, a pile of bills on the counter, and the dread of your morning alarm going off in 5 hours.
Then it's gone. Well...not gone-gone, but you know what I mean. The feeling of energy, joy, passion, sadness, reality, or whatever-you-want-to-call-it is swallowed up by your reality.
The reality that here you are. Your thoughts are only thoughts. And life moves on.
Here lies the danger of living in your head.
You're the king or queen of an empire, but you forgot to take out the garbage and it's overflowing onto your kitchen floor.
You've led great armies into battle, but you struggle getting your friends to hang out once a month.
You can charm the socks off of anyone alive, but you're alone while your crush is off with someone else.
You're the life of the party, but you'll never throw one.
Living in your head is great. Until you wake up.
For many, it's not too big of a problem. For this guy [pointing at myself], it's a constant battle – and no two battles look the same.
As I was contemplating this earlier this afternoon, three words came to mind:
Think. Plan. Act.
Obviously, skipping the first and second words will end in disaster 98% of the time. But for those of us who spend way to much time thinking and not enough time planning and acting, I'm afraid we're going to miss those pivotal moments in life where we can experience true joy, fulfillment, happiness, and, yes, suffering and pain.
So take the challenge.
Get out of your head.
Get your plans on paper.
And do something about it.
** I wanted to make sure I spelled "barred" right and this came up. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did**