There is a state of being that I experience far too often where I have a sense of mechanisms in my brain that create a situation of a mental swell where pockets of my brain are collecting thoughts, ideas, creations to be, and even emotions—but they just cannot get out.

Potential mental energy. Nothing kinetic happening, while whatever it is that holds these not-even-metaphorically-intangibles keeps filling up. This is a strange condition born from the overwhelmingness of the work I know will be involved in properly pushing these things out into the world to be real things outside of my own brain.

“Properly” is the key word here—as this relates directly to my OCD in a way I don’t think a lot of people realize¹. I am writing this while being in that state of mind, and my OCD is making every single word tremendously difficult. I know exactly what I want to say. Why, in fact, I have books worth of things to say and create. I’ll give one example right here. See that footnote I just put in a few sentences ago. That took me quite a bit of energy. Do I want to do the work formatting it for my site? I know I want that particular phrase it points to, to be a footnote. But I second guess its worth. My thoughts then move to all sorts of eventualities regarding the writing of this article.

Is anyone really going to care to read it all? Does that matter? If it does, what can I do to get more people to read it? If it doesn’t—and I kinda think it shouldn’t—I probably should be happy with whatever comes out for my own interests.

We’re about 160 words—and I can tell you about 20 minutes—into thinking based off that footnote. Not about it, this is not a perfectionism situation. No, based off of it—eventualities and all the mental tentacles that grow from that… thing².

I’m a tremendously creative person. The quality of my work is absolutely subjective, and none of that matters much to me anymore at my age. I like my work, I like what I think of, I think it is very distinctively intelligent.

However.

The sheer majority of my “work” cannot be defined as “work” because it remains in that allegorical bladder in my brain. It is hell. I think of what I am missing out on in terms of being able to present myself to the whole world. Or, at least, those who wish to experience my product. And I know that is certainly more than a handful of people—it may not be many more. It may be a lot of people! I don’t know. So much work stays within me.

My OCD is important here. I am sure that is what is pinching the aforementioned bladder. Because what comes out needs not be perfect, but be with a very well-defined purpose. It needs to mean many things. It needs to be crafted with meta-work as it were: communicating on many different levels in the way my brain senses the very (overly?) complex end result.

Sometimes I think I am just lazy. But then I know that thought in itself is a lazy thought. Yeah, that’s confusing.

So my brain is often full. What does this mean? The similarities to the physical world are actually quite remarkable to think about. Figuratively speaking³, I don’t have room for certain complex thoughts and emotions on the input side of my brain. I am all full of thoughts and everything I want to work on for the output side of my brain. The two seem to share the same thought bank.

This article.

This is not at all what I wanted to say completely.

It is rubbish to me.

It could be so much more—I’m missing so many layers.

Junk, this.

So I’ll stop working. However, I cannot stop thinking.