By the time I realize where I am, I’ve gone too far to turn back. Most of my process for calling something new into existence involves looking the other way so as not to observe myself in action. I don’t want to give myself performance anxiety, or violate any ancient embedded rules of conduct, so I pretend I’m not doing what I’m doing.

I’ve spent lots of time the last few years actually examining the methods I use to navigate my little life. I assign value to this or that desire, claim to be headed in the only possible direction. Then I change my mind and it’s like I’ve discovered gravity: how could I not have known about this? It’s so obvious. I was headed in this direction all along.

And then I feel obligated to justify my new direction with something that sounds reasonable. Lots of other people seem to operate the same way. A change of plans or philosophy or fashion sense must be announced in a serious manner. Because people are watching, you know. Waiting to see what you’ll do next. So make sure you set a good example. No guessing on the multiple choice part of the test. Please use a consistent point of view when answering the personal essay questions.

Certain moments illuminate my real motivations with blinding clarity. Like when the dentist told me I would need a root canal, in such a kindly tone that I almost cried in front of him. And I wondered: did I put off taking care of this tooth because I knew I’d get some pity when I finally came in for an exam? Am I that starved for sympathy from the grownups? I remember feeling like this in third grade. Do I still think like a third-grader?

And what’s the deal with these cellphone pictures? I’m using a much nicer camera now. Sure, my internet connection at home isn’t working, and the computer at work won’t recognize the good camera, but I do have access to a USB card storage thingy, and it would only take a few moments to load it with a few pictures for my blog. Am I having trouble fully accepting the reality of having a wonderful camera?

It’s plain that part of me still yearns for the days when I was sick all the time from an infected tooth and my heart was broken and my workdays were terrible and I had no nice camera. Because then I could still imagine that the general adult sympathy I always (secretly) craved as a child might show up. I might get scooped up and covered with kisses by my mom and allowed to indulge a love of comic-themed bandaids. But nobody’s going to feel sorry for the person holding the nice camera.

The other motivation here is a fear of complexity. I’ve been both addicted to and paralyzed by boredom, by habits that have cradled me like a baby. Oh great bureaucracy, keep me in my place; crappy cellphone camera, withhold my pixels; ironclad routine, give me no real choices. Hey, I’m not knocking routine, I recommend it for those stricken with really bad news, also those who are approximately one month old.

This new camera, and its accompanying realm of possibilities, have got me nervous about overloading my poor brain. What if I’m so busy trying to get great shots that I miss the simple beauty of shapes and outlines? Where will my imagination go to pass the time when pictures become crowded with detail? When I break my longstanding habits, will my personality disintegrate? Am I safer as an automaton?

Oh well, it’s too late to do anything about it now.