“But it suddenly hits me how alien it has become just to try to define racism, and admit to it.”

Excellent article. 

The “roaring twenties”. The “gay twenties”. Oh what a wonderful time to be alive and in your twenties; with the world at your feet, the possibilities are endless, no?

As I navigate through this period of nothingness while trying to create some sense of something, I am plagued by more questions and less answers than I’d normally like to be. Usually it would make for excellent writing fodder, but for a while I had nothing to say. I was paralyzed with my thoughts and not being able to get them out was like being constipated—you know it’s there but it just ain’t coming out. 

One thing that was really stuck on my mind this weekend was that atrocious bill, trying to make it legal to kill all of the homosexuals in Uganda. I kept on thinking about how fucking horrible that is, how disgusting and offensive and horrifying. How are we letting this happen? How could anyone possibly hate someone so much, that they would want to kill them? And of course, they are using religion as an answer for murder because in the name of honor, worship and “goodness”, murder is totally cool! THIS IS ABSOLUTELY ABSURD! And all I want to do is shout and scream and yell and donate everything I have to the cause—but then I get sidetracked by how unbelievably futile everything I want to do is because every time I talk to my friends or family about my politics, they have nothing to say except for “well, what’s the point of thinking about it? You can’t do anything about it.” Because let’s face it, I’m a broke graduate with no job, no real prospects at the moment except for my “writing” and really, what good is that going to do for the gays who are living in terror and fear in Uganda? Here I am, bitching about my “career” as a ‘writer” and it all seems so inconsequential when people all over the world are fighting just to live.

And all of my work sucks. Insert pout, angry eyes and an angry storm-off.

I mean, honestly now, the chances of me creating something absolutely original and groundbreaking are pretty slim to none. So what’s the point? Why am I doing this? Why do I sit here and spend all this time thinking about stories and characters and moments? Revealing parts of myself to the entire world, people who I will most likely never meet? Why do we do any of this stuff?

Because the people around us aren’t enough.

We need to know who else is out there so we know that we’re not alone.

We need to feel a sense of kinship and community; love and strength borrowed and returned, ideas recycled for someone else to make anew.

Tonight, my good friend Jessica told me during a conversation about life and God and whether or not He exists, “I think the real miracle is that life happens, I mean, after D-Day, life happened. Under all of these horrible circumstances life still happens.”

Suddenly I felt much better. I felt great swell of emotion and I was once again invigorated with a sense of duty to pursue my dreams. I thought about being proactive and then I envisioned myself writing furiously at a coffee shop, reading intensely with my eyebrows all furrowed and serious on a couch in a coffee shop, me watching some indie-music-band-dude play acoustic guitar at some coffee shop and and then with no explanation whatsoever of what happens between the coffee shop and this next clip of myself in my mind, I’m walking into a big open loft with my own photo studio where I also have a small office set up for me to do my writing because I am a writer, selling my words for a pay cheque, everyday amazed that people pick up what I write and produce and for some weird, cosmic, unexplainable reason, believe in it and can relate to it.

And then share it on tumblr.

Because we make life happen.