On the Doorstep

In the last drawer of my vanity-desk there is a scented, purple diary that was given to me long ago as a birthday present. On those rosy pink pages, for perhaps the only time in my life, I documented me: what I felt, what I observed, and what I wanted. It so happens that what one would find on those thick sheets of paper is quite antithetical to the outward theme of the diary itself; cheery, feminine pastels do not seem the proper vessels for the somber, wearily pained voice etched in black ink.

Yet, there was a power and comfort in passionately scribbling all of both the heavy and silly emotions that coursed me at 11 years old.  Today, I find myself facing a deep canyon of hurt, disappointment, ambition, hope, and many problems that have come to constitute my psyche, but I choose to do something about it. In the archetypal hero's journey, the would-be champion must confront the fear, doubt, and sores that inhabit his heart before he can help anyone else. Thus I have elected to both go to counseling and to write about how I feel and what I think again.

Despite the extreme unhappiness that seems to grasp me at times, I truly am an optimist: even in the internal conversations that occur within me where I find myself looking for the worst in the future, myself, or humanity, I always find a reason to smile and dismiss such claims as myth. I simply love the good in people too much, and it gives me hope.

So to you reader, who stands on my doorstep wondering whether reading this is worth your time, I'll tell you something that I continue to find true: the more we learn about others, the more we learn about ourselves, and the more we realize that the space between you and I in no way proves that we are composed of different elements, the more comfort and hope we are able to find.