I always knew I wanted to save the world. And most days, I can’t wait to rise and do my part, whatever that is, in whatever ways I can.
It’s an astoundingly formed little miracle, our world–it and all of its flora and fauna and all of the things we’ve invented and sustained. It’s a hero, really, though being a part of it is suspiciously mundane, especially when you’re in a comfortable corner of it. Of course, we inflate our concerns based on how much real-life survival we face (or don’t face) daily, and that’s just the way it goes.
Most days, as I said, it’s amazing to me. I love using my voice, my words, and I love the dream of reaching people, however many people and conveying a message, a thought, a joke, that resonates with someone, irritates someone, infuriates someone, inspires someone … even if it makes someone despise the very air I breathe, I’m okay with that. At least you’re feeling something. Feeling something because of me.
Some days, though, it’s overwhelming. Don’t you find? And I don’t necessarily mean my output so much as the input, my muse (and your muse?)–the voices and happenings of the world. The way we’re all so connected now. There are so many words, so much information, so much happening at any given moment, and there’s only so much you can breathe in, or more literally, focus on. I want to breathe it all in, truthfully, and some days I try, which surprisingly doesn’t always choke me. No, it doesn’t choke me. But it can feel like breathing in vaporous concrete.
The people of Aleppo and all of the violence and the wars and a school was bombed and a hospital and the boats are going down down down and they’re drowning I can hear them trying to breathe sucking in water and losing their minds and then their lives and god I hope their spirits feel mercy in that moment otherwise it’s unimaginable and then there’s all the stray animals and the other violence and the diseases with expensive vaccines that aren’t being sent and the babies are crying and the mothers are mourning and the fathers are holding machetes and running on dirt roads and there are ghosts everywhere from all of the pain and their swirling in our heads but we try to not feel them because we don’t want to think about doom or what’s happening to our planet oh god that’s right the climate and all the suffering that’s already coming from that and what will be in the future and no one wants to talk about it and there’s a hilarious video of a guy dancing about pineapples and there’s an adorable dog that brings tears to my eyes and the jokes on Twitter the jokes and jokes and jokes and we all need humor and the article on fashion and does fashion really matter jesus christ I scrolled past an article about the ice caps melting and the refugees sleeping on the streets and the rubble of their homes and oh god what are we and the little girl in Aleppo that said good morning to us.
But I love it still, the wading through, the trying to say something that matters, the sharing someone else’s words that matter. I’ll never stop loving it. The trying. It is all too much, but it does matter. And I guess that’s what really matters.