Blocking myself

I remember years ago when Sex in the City was still on air, and not in the reruns category. I remember this haunting episode in which Samantha's character (played by Kim Cattrall) ran out of orgasms. For any woman this is a very scary idea. To actually run out of what was once easy, or if not easy at least necessary for happiness in life.

You might wonder where in the hell I'm going with this whole line of thought, but I'm getting there, (this is where I insert snarky comment: that's what she said)...the point...yes that everything has a limit. We may not know how many breaths we get, or days, hours or minutes. We may not know how many orgasms we have until that part of our body just stops working. Who the fuck knows.

We stare in the mirror at our graying hair and wrinkled faces and the clock ticks on. We watch the skin on our hands grow clearer and spotted and the clock ticks on...tick...tock...tick...tock. Its moving along even as we are unaware of it. So my point is, what if we only have so many words in us. So many words we can think, say, type, share, only so many before the damn walls up and we have no more.

What if we only have so much creative juice to use towards our projects, be them book, home, painting or poetry.

These what ifs...keep me up at night. I worry over them more than a person should. Like peeking behind the curtain, or opening a present early, we don't know, and we shouldn't know.

But as I use my creativity on my home and countless other projects that don't include writing I can't help wondering if I'm squandering what ideas could be used for writing on other things. Am I using up that lovely creative juice on the wrong thing? Is there a right one?

I'll undoubtedly harass myself with this thought before I reach a conclusion, and I'll wonder...am I blocking myself with my own crazy thought process, am I killing my creativity just by pondering its limitations? Am I?

We all play the part of sabotage...