I haven’t written in two months and it has probably been two months prior to that post when I sat down and truly wrote of the world in which I live in. I could give you an excuse; mostly when I go through periods of not writing I offer that excuse as an apology for not doing what will most help me. I could talk about what I have been doing these last months; I could even take the easy way out and simply re-post one of my more popular posts. Instead I decided to wipe the screen blank and start again.

It is a new year and while many people have resolutions about what they are going to do this new year, I don’t. I don’t believe in lying to myself and I have always known that a resolution spoken in a moment of champagne and celebration won’t stand the test of endurance that life is almost predictable in giving us. Lying and not giving myself the truth, not seeing who I am today and who I will be tomorrow, is a transgression against the very person that I am required to be in order to survive in a world that does not wish me to do so.

It is rather melodramatic to talk about surviving in this world (especially the part about the world not wishing me to succeed in any of it). Let’s be truthful as this post is claiming to be. The world as a whole, whether we are talking about a body of persons or the incredibly large and dense planet that revolves around a star so bright it is beyond our eyes ability to truly see it, doesn’t care if I succeed. It doesn’t care if I write everyday, every other day, or once every two months. This world truly doesn’t need my success to measure it’s own worth. We see this in the people that do in fact support us and the millions who have no idea who we are. Whether we are resolute about a promise made to ourselves or a change that we feel would help solve our greatest dilemmas, the world as a whole doesn’t care. Not many people care.

If you were honest with yourself, as I try to be, you could easily say that you don’t really care about anyone else succeeding either. In a world where the rule of Darwin still exists there is a primordial need to be; to be our own definition of beauty, our own definition of strength, and our own definition of what courage looks like deep within our own souls. You could argue that there are organizations and people that care about human beings, about the people out there who suffer – whether in vain or in a rather basic health condition – do in fact, spend their lives working for those that cannot fight. There are noble people who truly believe that which they yell at the top of their lungs. There are people in this world who look around and know the answer to the questions the mentally gifted have been struggling for lifetimes to understand. Yet each of us must fight a battle that has nothing to do with the good deeds of others, the resolutions we promise ourselves, or the truths that sneak up and destroy the fabric of our own skin in the swiftness of their turns.

I thought about entering a paragraph here about the recent elections or the final presidential address of a man that literally rewrote the rule book, but we have heard and felt it before. Most of us can admit to unfriending people because of the words of those we could have loved dearly were brought to the table as easily as they did their own ego. I could talk about making ourselves into better people, but it isn’t my right. It isn’t my role. And while many may consider this cowardice, I call this the necessary truth. I am not here to change you – if you are amicable to change there are others that can help you in ways that I simply can not. So while many feel that the last months have been ones of conflict and hatred, it isn’t my place to correct it. I may not listen to it; but at the end of the day I truly believe it isn’t my right to change the fundamental laws that govern your own self. These last months I have been aware of the divisions in our real worlds but it isn’t what I have truly struggled with.

I have been struggling recently with a list of things that would take the rest of the night to not only write but to read. But allow me the moment to open my mind and show you a glimpse. I struggle with the guilt of not giving to my children all that they deserve, I struggle with the understanding that I sink into my own morose to escape the tears of both happiness and sadness that bring me such fractal designs that I wonder if God can truly cry with me. I struggle with this idea that I am not fulfilling that which is my given assignment here on earth, yet I don’t know what that assignment actually is. I struggle with this beautiful fight between that which I know I can do and that which I actually do. And as always I fight to remain standing despite the betrayal of my very own brain. I fight not to give up fighting the struggles that are as comforting to me as they are self-defeating.

I have spent the last months in a limbo. I have hidden my heart between the pages of biographies that are so large it is amazing I can pick them up, and I have hidden the depths of my passions away so that I can finally understand what it is that truly makes me whole. I have spent the last months, lazy, uncomfortable, desiring this unique message sent by some being I don’t even know, and yet it suppose to surprise me that none of it has come. I am supposed to be understanding that there are forces out there to help me; and I am supposed to be understanding that there are answers in this nebulous world that seems so big as to be nearly impossible to communicate with. I am supposed to get up and fight and find the answers as if the world cares and wants me to be a better person.

The truth is, I have been lazy these last couple of months because I don’t know what to do now. I don’t know what the next step is, I can’t find the next fight, and I can’t breathe the understanding of patience without exhaling the laziness that has defined me for these last months. And I don’t know at what point I came to the realization that the path that I was on wasn’t mine. I don’t know where I came up with the idea that somehow sitting in a chair reading would bring me more answers than getting up and finding that piece of my heart entwined in forgiveness and courage. I don’t know how to explain to you that this waiting game that I am currently involved within is exactly what I am supposed to be doing.

My therapist would tell me to write it all down and reread it. My psychiatrist would be more concerned with changing that handful of medication I take each and every day. My husband, with all his compassion, would simply look at me and possibly offer some great exercise that I could do, and my mother would explain to me how what I am asking for doesn’t exist.

It is difficult to understand, even for myself, that waiting, that sitting down and holding on is exactly what I need to be doing right now. I am not supposed to be stumbling right now, I am not supposed to fall down some ravine to the truth found at the end of the rainbow, and I am not supposed to lie down, close my eyes and find a truth that will change me once more.

Will these feelings go away? Will all the answers come without my footsteps making their mark in the sand? Will I be a better person despite the knowledge that right now I need be no one at all? Yes. Without a doubt yes. The beauty of the earth turning, the years going forward, the heart beating is that we can find our way in our own way. And in doing so, we become that which explains the reason that we stand so strongly when every force tells us to die. Tomorrow will come. I will be. And in my silence maybe I will find the anthem that tells me what it is that makes me whole.