Daydreaming Through the Noise

I am a daydreamer. A highly functional daydreamer, but an undeniable and unapologetic daydreamer.

Many of these lucid wanderings make their way onto paper, sometimes in pencil, sometimes in ink, occasionally in watercolor. Never with the consistency I would prefer—but I am also caught in the swift current of fatherhood and young American-trying-to-rise-from-nothing-hood. Shoulder to shoulder, keep marching, eyes to the front. There is no wood paneled study or silent attic with a key turned in the lock, waiting for me to come and work in peace and solitude—yet.

But living is about relationships, about people. Would I unspool great stories, draw and paint with a depth that has so far escaped me? Would I find satisfaction alone with my imagination—or rattle against the panes of that solitude after all?

I have learned to create amid chaos. I think it might be best, I don’t know. I inhale and exhale slowly, and when there is time, at the kitchen table or in the bedroom, or at the workbench in the garage, I fill a blank white page with a idea. Or an emotion. Or a daydream.