You'd think after not writing since December, I would be overflowing with topics to write about. Seasons have passed. Loved ones have passed. Valleys of sorrow and mountains of joy, I have passed. (Wow, how freaking cliche.)
Despite all that, my thoughts at the moment, at 5:30 on a Tuesday morning, are filled with my family and coffee. But last night, with pen in hand and journal on my lap as I wrote down some ambien-fueled dreams before falling asleep, the feeling that I could maybe make a difference in the world slowly rose up in my belly. I think my peach tea drowned it slightly by the end of my writing session, but 8 hours later, there is still a bubble of hope.
No, I can't change the world. And I don't even think I want to. What I do want, and maybe think I can do, is lend my voice to those whose have been silenced by stigma and fear. Those who blame themselves. Those who can't put into words the monsters' attacks. Maybe it will give life to a movement of thousands of dead spirits who have been resurrected. Maybe I will get a single one-word email saying, "Thanks."
Hopefully tonight, when I'm back in bed writing the words I don't let the world read, I will be struck with the inspiration and motivation to take those words public, and let them know, they're not alone.
