Dear Mr. President,
Tonight I thought about writing to you about Bill O'Reilly on The View, or a FOX news reporter claiming "all terrorists are Muslims" or maybe your own administration's heel-dragging on Don't Ask Don't Tell. I probably should write about one of these things, but I've been stuck feeling listless this week, and I just can't summon the inspiration to articulate what I think about any of these stories in an interesting way.
I'm not sure what's wrong, exactly. I seem to have lost the focus and drive that normally get me through. I don't know what it is I'm working for or what will make me happy. The suffering I read about in the news or see in other people is overwhelming. What kind of future can I hope to enjoy when so many people are going through so many bad things?
I've been prone to these moods my whole life. I call it my place of darkness. It isn't that I'm giving up, I'm just recalibrating, I think, trying to gauge what my priorities and needs and goals are, or what they should be. This whole letter-writing project was born out of a similar mood, a desire to speak to power even if my voice went unacknowledged in the cacophony of other voices. I may post these letters, copy them out and mail them to the White House, but I think we both know I'm writing for me more than I'm writing for you. I need to believe the world will get better, that we're all moving through these difficult times toward a brighter future. And maybe these letters are my way of whistling past the graveyard, the haunting fear of failure or of inconsequence that keeps me moving even when I'm not certain why or where I'm headed.
I have to just give myself permission to feel lost. I try not to let hopelessness or aimlessness take over for too long. I'm going to find my sense of purpose again, in a few days or a few weeks or a few months. For now, I think a good night's sleep is better than another hour surfing news sights for some sign of hope.
I hope you have a good weekend.