Time to think is typically a positive opportunity, a luxury, even, to acknowledge all I have in life. Too much time to think, though, is dangerous, even menacing. It’s a fearful reality I’ve confronted daily since graduating from college.
In the three weeks after graduation, I didn’t have a job, leaving me ample time to practice Arabic, run, read and watch the “Pi-vot!” episode of “Friends” on repeat. In the evening, though, with each dimming moment mocking me, I awaited the menacing patterns of uncontrolled reflection.
I obsessed over that which no longer mattered and that which never did in the first place. The productive construction of rudimentary Arabic (“Is your car large or small?” is one of my more labyrinthine sentences) gave way to cluttered, damaging thoughts.
My new job, which is amazing, thankfully focuses me, but on the 45-minute commute each morning and night, I find myself cranking up the music (probably T. Swift, let’s be real here). Sometimes my thoughts overpower it, weaving their way into the pop-infused cacophony of my mind.
At first, I wanted nothing more than to silence it. A couple days ago, though, I realized the cacophony of my wandering mind isn’t something to silence but to crank up, much like “Blank Space.”
Yeah, it’ll probably sound terrible and feel soul crushing for a while, but maybe, someday, I’ll have the wisdom to reconfigure it.
Maybe, someday, I’ll be able to belt out, “I can make the bad guys good for a weekend,” along with T. Swift as I evaluate my latest 20-something mistake. I imagine I’ll like how it sounds.