American Dream or Gateway to Restlessness

I'm sitting here in a very comfortable chair. Where? I'm sitting in front of my very own home the we purchased last year. The crickets are chorusing with the frogs and the Whippoorwills and the sun has sunk to rest on the horizon and spill forth crimson, blush, and gold. The coming night is still and I am relaxed sipping my favorite drink - iced coffee. And yet, I wonder. I wonder at this feeling inside of me; this ever constant nibbling at the edges of my contentment.
You see, I am living the American Dream with my family: financially secure, happy and safe children, two cars we own, and a house we do not rent but instead we call ours! Isn't that the American Dream? Isn't that what so many come seeking or grow up here seeking? Is this not the epoch of living what so many chase? Then why does my heart still cry out to chase? I see others who have what we have and yet they cannot stop from ever running, ever stumbling, ever barreling headlong for more!
I wonder as I sit here safe and secure in my world if perhaps the obtaining of this Dream is not just a gateway to restlessness. Shouldn't we, I, be content to have reached at so early an age what others spend their entire lives fighting for? But I am not! I find that the Dream has been reached and my lust for more has not been satisfied. It would seem to be do with many, many others as well. We are immersed into a fast paced world from birth and we are washed over by the ideology of more ever more!! So much so that when what we reach what we are told is the Dream we suddenly find ourselves feeling stagnant and discontent. After all, there is more out there we do not yet have! There is more out there that others are doing and we are not! We must- we MUST!!!
Perhaps though, that is just me. Perhaps the Dream is not mine. I have loved the idea of a home and family and security and yet I have thirsted with an unquenchable thirst for just a hint of insecurity, just a dash of the unknown, a tidbit of danger and mountains of foreign and exotic places! My feet climb from bed in the morning and I walk through this American Dream while my mind tells my feet and soul to run as fast as possible! "Hurry!" Whispers my mind. "Flee!" Cries my soul. "Do not let yourself be too content," echoes my heart. For content I am and yet, content I am not. I have reached the Dream and upon entering its doors I found the gateway to restlessness.
I think my brother might have been right when he once observed to me, "You were simply born with the nature of a Gypsy." If that is my nature than who am I to accept anything less?

Let It Wander

Wandering minds: such vicious but ultimately satisfying creatures. Never stopping but long enough to say hello then scurrying on to the next great or lesser. Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue were we each of us able to physically follow our minds where they might lead us? Alas! We are not all rich and must content ourselves with outlets for wandering minds. We sing with the passion of the Sistine Chapel. We paint with the colors of a sunset bleeding over the Swiss Alps. We debate and argue with the fury of an avalanche coming down Mt Everest. We love like a Spaniard and cry like a monsoon in South America. Every passion we pursue reflects our wandering minds. When someone critiques or lauds, insults or praises our passions, no matter how wild those passions may be, remember that in a way, their mind is simply mirroring your own, or envying yours.

The Paranoia of Writing

Someone asked me: "What's it like to have all those stories in your head and to be able to write them?"
I am fairly certain my blank stare and slightly open mouth made them quickly rethink their question and perhaps even ponder as to whether or not I actually HAD anything in my head! The truth is, it's not like anything I really know and so I was rather taken aback at the question. Now I've given it some thought. These are the conclusions I've come too- the answers, if you will.
First, if I could liken it to something I would liken it to paranoia; breathtaking, never boring, exhilarating and confounding but paranoia nonetheless. Why? Imagine there is always the feeling that something or someone is whispering in your head, teasing you from just out of sight, and flashing you just the briefest glimpses of utopia while never quite giving you the directions. That, unfortunately or fortunately, is the closest I can equate all the stories in my head with. They are there, constantly thrumming and circling and it is up to me to chase them down and give them life.
Secondly, I am NOT able to write them all down. This often causes me a great deal of distress as my sometimes narcissistic mind believes that each and every plot is the next Gone With the Wind. I have to force my mind to behave and focus on some and not all at a time. It's dizzying but I wouldn't dismount this out of control carousel for all the sanity in the world!
Lastly, and I realize this was not part of their question but it is part of the answer, being a writer is not something you choose, it is something you are. I did not wake up one day and decide to mount this ever frantic, ever changing pace roller coaster. I did not look at people like F. Scott Fitzgerald or Stephen King and decide that it was my way to be rich. No. Instead, it is something that has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. The stories, the characters, the plots have been part of my every waking moment since I first can recall. It's as much a part of me as my heart beat is. Without either, I don't survive.
Now that! Yes, all the above; I wish I had been able to answer that person who first posed to me the question. :)