I would like to be a writer, but it turns out there’s a catch: writers must write. And I do not do that. So.

What I want to do today is deceptively simple. My fingers are itching to spill forth words but my brain is far too full. I’m going to try and remedy this by spilling some of the jumble. It’s not going to be pretty, but it needs to happen. Because if I’m not writing…

Being an adult is some kind of wretched bullshit most days.

As it turns out, we never stop growing, never stop learning, and as time and knowledge accrue, the world can often seem bigger and nastier every single day.

But.

As much as it hurts, I… actually wouldn’t trade being an adult for anything. There’s an idea from a comic (of all things) that I keep close to my chest, and it goes a bit like this:

Some people say if there isn’t anything after this, then what does it matter. I say, if there is nothing after this, then everything matters.

I love this idea. It’s what drives me on most days. Because as a kid, you are feeling things through inertia. You’re pretty much just existing and testing, accomplishing nothing for the most part. But as an adult, your actions are sound. They are built from the structures of time and knowledge. The choices you make actually matter. And the best part? You’re still going to make the wrong choices.

It’s… it’s weirdly part of the beauty of life. No matter where you are, no matter how much you know, you’re going to fuck up, and you’re going to fuck up bad. I do it daily. But like hell I’ll be beaten down by it all. Like hell I’m going to take anything lying down.

Because this is it. This is what we have. And everything matters. Everything. So bring on the hurt. You don’t scare me, world. I choose a life that matters, choose a life that I feel, that I ache with, and not because I’m a masochist, but because if you feel that bad, you can feel the good. It’s the contrast that makes it all worthwhile.

To those who know me. To those who like me. To those who love me. I make my choices deliberately, with sound and with fury. I am strong as hell, and no matter what happens, I will perceiver. I will feel. I will hurt. I will heal. I will empathize. I will love.

Whatever comes, I will be ready. Maybe not right away. It might take time. It might take effort. But no matter what the fight is, the end will be worth it all.

I’ll talk with you all again tomorrow, however briefly.

Because writers. They write.