My mind races with thoughts as I lackadaisically meander through my apartment in search of my neglected notebook and Pilot G-2 05 pen. There’s just something about actually writing something down, rather than typing it, that’s always appealed to me. It feels more poetic, a romantic notion.
The pen is important. I need an inky pen that’s smooth and produces flowing lines like my flowing thoughts. This process is slow enough as it is without having to go back and rewrite what’s already been written. Even though I’m going to type it into my blog for the entire world to see, it makes the process a bit more whimsical.
My motivation has been rediscovered. Fruits of my labor are ripening and I’ll be able to harvest them shortly, which reminds me how far I still have to go, and that in order to achieve what I’m already as mentally prepared as I’ll probably ever be, I still have some motions to go through. I feel like my life is one long mathematical equation that, in order to solve, you have to jump around and solve things in the correct order. You can’t just go straight through it from left to right, because 2 + (7 x 2) does not equal 18. It equals 16. I’ve always been one for not taking an orthodox path. I guess it’s just the way things happened. As a child I experienced the amount of death in my life that shouldn’t happen until I’m very old, I mothered a family of 6 as I entered High School, Was married before I could legally drink (by choice – and we’re still happily married over 5 years later), and now I’m entering my Junior year of college at the age of 24.
I’ve still got a lot to discover, relationships to establish, books to absorb, and a multitude of things to accomplish academically and personally. I guess as much as I think I’m ready, I’ll never be completely ready until the moment I need to be, and even then I’m not sure.
Maybe I’m over-stretching a feeble mind, maybe I’m delusional, maybe everyone is humoring me. Maybe I’ll be a hot commodity. Whatever it is, I feel almost inhibited by my mind – that maybe I’m too much of a dreamer to see reality. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve experienced enough to know of life’s cruelty and devastation. I know others have had it worse than me. I know that some people are heartless and selfish and that it’s the bottom line that conquers all – not love.
Despite my best efforts, I just can’t shake the overwhelming feeling that maybe I’ll never make the impact that I wish to make. That I’ll continually be disregarded as weak, just because I think happiness should be shared. That misery is for those who are cruel for no reason, other than their own lack of empathy.
I’m afraid that I won’t be able to create a better world for my children. I’m afraid that my efforts will have been in vain, and that being a dreamer will be my greatest downfall. Most of all I’m afraid that some people will never be able to experience true happiness, or worse – never know that it exists at all. That they’ll never know that it could be better, that it doesn’t have to be like that.
My heart breaks every time I hear about abuse, poverty, and whatever other tumultuous and horrific happenstances you can think of. What hurts the most is the feeling of absolute helplessness, and knowing that I’ll never be able to change their lives, or give them happiness.
At the event I went to last night, I wanted to donate money to help kids get school supplies and backpacks. It’s hard to sleep at night knowing that parents can hardly afford to clothe their children, let alone buy them pencils. I didn’t want to donate money for the raffle tickets so that I could win a cool prize. I wanted to do it, because I want to believe that every bit helps.
My mind races when I think of all the other things I could be doing besides writing in a notebook, whining about injustice, wasting paper.