A lot of emotional processing this year so far. Legends passing, medications changing (reducing depression symptoms), the usual introspection. Maybe... maybe not so bleak. Maybe finding my way towards hope. Or faith. Not in gods, but maybe us. Maybe me. Maybe deciding to grope in the dark, rather than pretend I'm a part of it.
I posted only four items to my blog in all of 2015. I've barely touched my novel. A writer has to write in order to be. I haven't *been*. There have been so many things keeping my fingers off the keys, the vast majority of them lies I tell myself.
As we age, we will watch all of our heroes die. All of them. We'll lament that the world is poorer for their passing and wonder how the world will get on. There have to be new heroes. New people to inspire and give of themselves so freely and fearlessly. I think there is an underlying panic in that realization, because of the idea that comes crashing down after it; it's us. We have to be those people. We at least have to try in whatever way we can muster.
I have to stop telling myself that the world doesn't need to hear what I have to say, that I'm just one more voice in seven billion equally valid (or invalid) voices. I have to not be so convinced of my own worthlessness that I don't even bother trying. I have to realize that small measures are still progress. I have to.
David Bowie, amazing as he was, seemed to live by the notion of throwing shit against the wall and seeing what stuck. He tried *everything*. Frankly some of it wasn't great, but so much of it was revolutionary. I can try something.
Alan Rickman didn't start acting until he was 46. There is no time table for beginnings, nor is there one for success.
Maybe I'm not too exhausted to try. Maybe I'm not too disheartened to try. Maybe the world would like my voice. Maybe not. Maybe I should fucking try regardless.
Maybe I can be someone I'm proud of.
Maybe that's worth everything.
