Some theories of psychology believe that we’re made of psychological parts. Lover, brother, leader, activist, humanitarian, whatever. But there’s a dark side. For every saint there’s a sinner. For every virgin there’s a whore.
If this theory is true, then we all have inside of us the seeds of a superhero dreamer. A creative powerhouse that lights fires, sketches majestically, sings from the heart and dances like no one’s watching. In the moments this part steps out and into the spotlight, you know the power. Things happen. Small miracles occur. Your magnetism broadcasts and connects with anyone in the vicinity.
And then there’s the opposing force. I call this little turd boy the ‘Inner Critic.’ Since I prefer not to utter its name, I’m just gonna refer to it as ‘the Ic.’
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