On grey mornings like this a breathless solitude washes over me. Today is a homesick day. An uncertain day. Today I feel like I have nothing to offer the world but a twenty something with little job experience, a mind with no other certain gift to society. Why is it that this century makes me feel like a commodity whose only value is what she produces for bigger, greedier, money hungry machines?
The job market depresses me, the state of American politics and society depresses me, and my sense of helplessness to change it depresses me. It is all so pointless. I want to retreat into my words, this language called English that nobody around me speaks or understands, and create something of beauty, of wonder, that makes the world wake up and see what is going on.
i do not have job experience. but i keep telling myself to follow my pen, because my pen and my words have always worked, unfailingly, for me.
so my pen and i go forth on this icebox of a morning into the grey abyss.