It’s time to write again. The hurt, the triumphs, the work it takes to bridge the gap. It’s true, I’ve lived a melancholy life. I’m trying to do something different. My future has lied to me; it has hurt me, twisted me into mystifying, excruciating shapes. But I want to reclaim some land, some space for myself. I want to find happiness among a body and a mind that fight against such optimistic notions.

I want to understand worth and meaning. I want to find and hold the light. I want to find magic. It’s ridiculous. It’s obscene. And I don’t care. I need it, I yearn for it so deeply – it is no different than the air I breathe.

It’s not ridiculous or obscene, even though if you lived what I have lived you may believe it surely was. I believe in kindness and caring toward myself even though my experience has told me I am not worthy of that. My experiences tell me I am worthy of pain and suffering and heartache. What if the bravest, most audacious thing I can do for myself is be kind and patient and brave and steady? A slow hand nudging me along toward love.

That’s all I can hope for. Love. For that, I am willing to walk through hell and high water. For love. Always love.

I may not live a long life. Let’s be honest, I probably won’t. But for now, while I’m here, I’m here for love. Here for love. Always here for love.

Give ‘Em Hell