It hardly seems like time to be a writer at times like this. Talk about unrecoverable.
It’s difficult not to feel a fair bit superfluous as a word-crafter next to the sore reality of so much anguish, suffering, and death. In the face of such facts, you really can’t deny we’re a fragile lot, more fragile even than most. We depend on so much more than shelter and food to sustain our livelihoods.
Yet from another vantage point, as well as feeling fortunate, it makes me very proud to be a writer. I have words where others don’t. I have an outlet to communicate the facts, the stories, the emotions that arise from disaster and the inevitable horrors that occur. I have a choice, and I have a voice.
If I didn’t write when the world suffered, it would be only more waste. Instead, by writing, I face the truth and I share things others wish to express. I provide hope and the sense that despite it all, there is always a spark of redemption as long as we survive. In surviving another day, there’s hope.
What are your thoughts, feelings, sensations right now as you watch?