Trying

Perhaps I simply needed to write it down. Or, more likely, perhaps I just needed to write. The act of typing seems to soothe me more than the actual words being set upon the page. It's strange to think of how quickly I seem to forget what comfort feels like. It's strange to think of how quickly I seem to forget that I am capable of saving myself, of pulling myself back from some dark and dreary place, of rediscovering the way light gently radiates from all of existence. It's strange to think of how quickly I can become blind to the things that once consumed my attention, those small and delicate details that make waking each day purposeful and perfect. It's strange to think that it's possible for me to ever feel joyless in a life that offers up so much joy.

Nothing happened necessarily. There were no epiphanies or revelations. There were no answers found. There were simply moments when sunlight poured through my bedroom window with such elegant poignancy that even the most cynical of souls would be forced to believe in beauty. Moments when the gentle grace of the universe hummed the sing song melody of life itself. Moments when I felt humbled by my existence, filled with gratitude for the continuation of my story. There were simply moments when whatever it was I've been searching for - a path, a destination, a direction - seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

And of course, it isn't insignificant. It's something I need to figure out, for me, for the sake of my happiness, for my own peace of mind. It means something to me to have places I want to go, things I want to accomplish. It means something to me to have dreams to work toward, whether they're realistic or not. It means something to me to keep moving forward, into a future where I can become a better me, where I can become the best version of myself, where I can become the kind of person I can maybe learn to love.

I understand that it's a process. I understand that I won't wake up one morning to a perfect life, all of my ducks miraculously in a row. I understand that it takes work, that it involves facing fears and admitting things I'd rather not admit and discovering, somehow, a way to have the kind of faith in myself that I have in those I love. I understand that I am not the only one learning these lessons. I understand that feeling lost and afraid and doubtful are just as much a part of life as feeling euphorically happy and content. I understand it is a balancing act. I understand it is a journey. I understand. I do.

It's just difficult to ignore the places that feel empty inside. It's difficult to see the places already filled, the fundamental fullness of a life being lived, when there is also this insatiable ache for the unknown. It's easy to let the negative thoughts outweigh the positive. It's easier to fall down than to climb back up. That's just the way of things. And I understand that too.

And so I try my best to be inspired by books and people and moments. I try my best to know that most of what I decide is insignificant in the grand scheme of things, even if it feels like everything at the time. I try my best to have faith that this too shall pass. I try my best to concentrate on those small and delicate details. I try my best to feel forever joyful in a world that offers up so much joy. I try my best to feel full in the most desolate of places, those times in my life made up of nothingness, those empty spaces inside my heart that never cease to ache. I try my best to believe there is more for me to do, and see, and love, and be. I try my best to see the beauty in such hope.

I try my best to type my way out of sadness, and sometimes, like now, it works.