Real Life

Yesterday I sat here at the keyboard suffocating in doubt, grudge and an overwhelming sense of frustration. Another submission, another rejection. Another day of bad silence and indifference. It just felt as if the windmills of this world had won and I didn't have the strength to mount another quixotic joust at my dreams. Today I woke up almost immediately to the news of the massacre in Colorado. 12 dead, almost 50 wounded because some psychopath, some coward, some monster with a grudge of his own couldn't handle the weight of the world. And though the shock and sadness of this news hasn't receded yet from the shores of my thoughts, I just sincerely feel now that I have no right to quit on what gives my life meaning when so many - not just in Colorado, but all over the world - have had that same choice taken from them with both cruelty and force. I don't have the power to save the world but I do have the power to write a better one. And I will answer every bullet, every drop of blood they shed, every monstrous act with which they are fired one dream at a time. It might not be much in the end, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't strive to do any less.