If you saw my parent’s pantry, you might suspect they have a tendency to hoard food. I have a hoarder trait too, I hoard knowledge. Every form of it. I can not read enough, view enough, learn enough.
My home is cluttered with paper – books, magazines, even bills and receipts. My email boxes are full, my computer’s desktop cluttered, my folders filled with files, my browser packed with bookmarks bearing URLs.
My head is exploding. It’s more than I can use. I find myself astonished when I encounter someone who doesn’t know something I know. I remind myself that they aren’t as dysfunctional as I am.
I try to share, every chance I get. I want people to know the things I know, maybe then I won’t feel so alone and out there. Because there has to be a purpose to all this acquisition.
I’m not a genius. I don’t wow people with my accumulated knowledge. Mostly I’m a pest. I point things out, I try to make people think, to expand their point of view. It’s annoying for most of them, I’m quite sure. Some shut me out, shut me down. Precious are the few who listen to me anyway. I’m not sure if my sharing adds anything to anyone’s life.
I hope it does.
I recharge and flail, hoping to strike sparks from the friction. The wood drills, the tinder is damp, warmth and illumination are all I seek.
Image: spark by Fatma S, on Flickr
