It’s been a few days since I’ve had “the itch”; that feeling tugging at the ends of my clothes, begging to be noticed. I recognize it, I sympathize with it, then I tend to let it trail by and follow me around for a few days. Today, it’s become a bit too annoying to not notice.
Lately, when this feeling comes, I grab my journal and write all the random stuff, the angry stuff, the mystic stuff.. anything currently going through my head, all at once. But when I try to make it look nice, to publish it somewhere, shout it from the rooftops, I seem to pause and let my arms hang in the air for a minute. Mainly because I’m not so sure I have the energy to try and beautify it, and because I’m not sure anyone would want to read it. And having been writing on the internet, on and off, for around 10 years now, I understand it is a mistake to assume that among the billions of humans surfing the World Wide Web, not one single soul would have the slightest curiosity to click on and read what I have to say. I know that from experience, because there have been times when I have published something, feeling quite obnoxious and pretty sure no one would want to read it, and then it finds love in the darkest of places.
Therefore, I came here again to say that I still have too much to say to the world. Even years later, after endless fatigue, grief, losing hope, and giving up on humanity, then coming around again. Even after feeling like I could drown with the overwhelm of how much I want to say and do, of how much I’m falling short of the sky-high standards I’ve set for myself. Even when nothing you do in this time and age is big enough, fast enough, or sparkling enough to make you feel like you’re catching up. I still have something to say, and I still want to say it. I want to talk about the big things, the small things, and everything in between.
I want to talk about the things I believe in, the ideas that could save people from themselves. I want to talk about my grief and how losing my father has chewed me up and spit me out, made me consider life and death (and my identity) in a whole new light. I want to talk about my work in healthcare, and how it has turned me inside out and back again, revealing to myself and to others every single thing that terrifies me about the world. I want to talk about coffee, books, nature, my family, my friends, the things that keep me up at night. I love people; they fascinate me endlessly, and I don’t ever want to shut up about how much better this world could be, how easier life in it would be, if people realized just how much they’re capable of.
