I believe in myself. I believe in my Self.
Do I define who I am? Or am I already? Am I a work in progress or a work of art? The Mona Lisa is finite, but her meaning remains open to infinite interpretation. My life is a masterpiece that taunts me with a mysterious smile.
I revel in the possibilities and recoil in the probability. I leap toward my future. I fall flat against my limitations.
Thinking. I am always thinking. I think I can. But what if thinking is the problem?—I think, therefore I am. I am a damsel in distress, tied to the tracks. My train of thought is barreling toward me, threatening to derail my ascension.
When I am not thinking, I am dreaming. My dreams are wild, detached from the constraints of reality, like Cinderella imagining herself at the ball, and suddenly she is there. Bibbity bobbety boo.
In my dreams, my thinking sounds like yada yada yada. I skip over the hard stuff and arrive at my goal. When I awake, the yada returns. I am thinking again. I think I can?
Suddenly, I’m not so sure. If I could, wouldn’t I have already? My beliefs are being called in for questioning. This is not the first time.
Prove yourself! I demand under the spotlight of interrogation. Doubt delivers a monologue of reason, but I remain inexplicably unconvinced.
I have a hunch, I say.
A hunch? Doubt answers back. Don’t quit your day job.
But it’s too late for that. I’ve already quit. After almost twenty years of clinging to the corporate ladder, I’ve released the rung. Let freedom ring.—Ring ring! Who’s there?
My beliefs are under the microscope now. What exactly am I made of?
I believe in myself. But the meaning of my Self has yet to be discovered.