Welp, it’s Inauguration Day. Tomorrow, women and men are taking to the streets of Washington, D.C. across the country in passive resistance, in solidarity to boycott oppression and promote compassion in a country that is divided by hatred and misguided loyalties. It’s time to come together for the cause of peace. It breaks my heart to think that a man as terrible and tiresome as Donald Trump was even taken seriously long enough to gain footing in the presidential race, much less to actually be elected as President of the United States.
My thoughts on it are underdeveloped because I feel like I still just haven’t read enough. I just don’t know enough. I don’t understand yet. But, maybe I never will.
My own problems and frustrations shrink and grow behind my weary eyelids, like the images in fever dreams. Yes, I need to keep moving forward. Yes, I need to be strong. Yes, I need to care for myself. But, no, it won’t be enough to change things—not really. I’m fighting the fatalistic reality that confronts me on a day like today. I’m fighting it because even though I won’t be marching tomorrow and even though I’m just sitting at my computer, in my comfortable house, I’m making a difference, too. Even in just educating myself and my two young daughters, even in feeding my family well and extending compassion and donations and whatever else I can to those in need, those who are working, I’m contributing something to the world. Even my small corner of this earth is a part of the whole.
Writing is not just a personal catharsis, but a productive act. Writing puts words and ideas down that other people might not think on their own. Writing brings another voice to prominence, adding to the harmony of the collective sound of humanity. Writing begets strength. It recharges the writer and refreshes the reader. It makes sense of the puzzle of reality, even if the words themselves are enigmatic or abstract. The imagination is proof that there is something worth fighting for. Writing proves that there is worth in humanity.