I write when I feel. And I feel a lot.
I just left a movie in which the only purpose had to be to further cripple any sense of morality in Americans because, as far as I could tell, it was a long cry from being entertaining.
And as I was driving home, somewhat annoyed, I was listening to the radio and I heard this mixed in with the news,
“Over 29,500 children under the age of five have now died because of the famine in Africa.”What.
There doesn't seem to be enough air in the car. And I’m struck dumb in my naivety. How is this possible? How do we live in a world where this is happening..? How does my heart even begin to process, let alone understand, this?
And then I remember,
“Do you want a box for that?”
“No…it would make my car smell, and I probably wouldn’t eat it anyway.”
There’s too much not right. And nights like this I realize why it’s so difficult for me to research Literature from Russia or make lesson plans emphasizing literary devices. Because how can I teach something that seems so insignificant in terms of eternity? How do I connect the two?
And when it comes down to it, sometimes I catch myself wondering, "What am I doing? Really."
My heart hurts tonight. That’s why I write.
