My worry springs from this:

The countless children whose pop tart voices ask daily if we’re watching a movie during the class period. They crunch their Cheetos to the rhythm of their heartbeats. They want to stare and imbibe every period of the school day for seven hours and then go home to binge-watch more while munching on Wendy’s.

The worry is this: that there is little time spent actively thinking, creating, doing.

The food they eat has been processed and packaged by someone else.

The shows they watch have been conceived and created by someone else.

The dreams they dream in their twitchy sleep will have been birthed by someone else.

These children take everything in and give out no energy for game-inventing or story-creating or deliciously fresh dinner-making.

When the most active task done during an irreplaceable day is bemoaning your schoolwork fate on an update or post, complaining about being encouraged to surf along the waves of your brain instead of the web, when will you see how others are living your life for you? You’re not living. Somewhere alone the line, you let go of the steering wheel, and your life crashed into a twisted pop can gnarled with dangerous edges, but your eyes are on the wheels, still spinning uselessly, and they trick you into thinking that you’re still moving, that you’re on the right track. You aren’t.

But you’re not alone.

It’s a hard life, to think and create and do. It’s so, so much easier to sit and watch. Believe me, I know. For five months now, I’ve been dreaming up a plan for a book page dress. Three months ago, I bought a dress to use as the sheath that I’d glue all the book pages to. Two months ago, I bought a snazzy paper punch that makes pages look like lace. One month ago, I picked out books whose pages were thick enough to use. This past weekend, I finally started the project in earnest. I’d put it off for so long because I didn’t want to get it wrong. It was only when I assured myself that whatever I did was a rough draft—that whatever I pasted on the dress didn’t matter—that I was able to actually start assembling the damn thing.

I want to believe that the people I surround myself daily with genuinely want to create something of value. But does insecurity secure their inaction? When will they harness their power? Every single day is a challenge to wrench back the wheel, shift into overdrive, punch the gas, and go, go go.