I have six posts, most of them long, that I never finished nor published since coming back to the states from my adventures overseas.
I have a couple about my hiking and walking, a few about the hard times I’ve had coming back to America, and the last two being attempts to find a general love for life and people when there seems to only be an aggressive hatred for anything that exists.
Every time I started to write, as I got to the end, the luster was lost. A death would occur. A fight. Something was said by a politician. And the internet would explode with its usual visceral, or perhaps lack there of, for humanity. And I’d stop writing in a sigh wondering what the point of it all was if nothing is ever going to truly change.
I got stuck in the standstill.
Then I moved. I got a job as a children’s art teacher. I moved in with one of my good friends from college. I even got a job as a writer and editor for a local magazine in Northern Minnesota. And I remembered the promises I’d made myself before I left Scotland, which was to jump into my passions, into what I’d always dreamed about doing and hadn’t stopped dreaming of since I was a child.
So, I apologize. I wrote about adventures and stopped because I was happy being in the present, which then turned into not being sure if what I was writing made a difference. Mainly because it seemed like what everyone else was constantly writing didn’t seem to make a difference.
I forgot that I don’t give a fuck if what I do makes a difference to everyone, anyone. It makes a difference to me. So. Suck it.
But a million thanks to friends and family. You make a difference to me.