For context, please refer to Corporate Burnout.

Sometimes I feel like I am playing one of those mobile games, where I only have so much energy I can spend each day before I need to close the app and wait until tomorrow. The problem is, I’m playing the free version, and start with minimal energy, so I only do a few things before needing to shut down. I want to keep playing, but I just don’t have the resources.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

For a long time, I was a storyteller without a voice. I buried myself in other people’s words, so I didn’t have to listen to the ones haunting me. I would sit down at my computer, or with a pen and paper, and stare at the blank page, giving up in frustration. I couldn’t start; before words even made it to the page, I would question them, edit them, try to shape them into something they didn’t want to be. This went on for years, and I think I suffered for it.

All those ghosts, all those stories never told.

So finally, after a lot of thought, I started this blog. Originally, it was a challenge for myself: write something, anything, and post every day for 30 days. I needed something outside of me to hold myself accountable. Something that could become a routine, where I would feel off, wrong, if I didn’t log in, if I didn’t write or proofread or post.

Some days were easy, and the stories just presented themselves, flowing out of me in one burst. Other times, I had to pull each word from my brain, slowly, painfully. Some days, I wrote short poetry, just to have something. Some days I didn’t even write, but posted a piece I had written in the past. But I did it. Every day, for 30 days.

And then something surprising happened. I realized it had become a habit. I kept going. I watched as the number of posts kept going up, up, up. I started mid-January, but as of yesterday, I posted every day for a whole month, in February.

I started this blog with hope, but not optimism, that I would be able to post 30 days in a row.

This, today, is my 55th post. It might not be much in the scope of a year, or a decade, or a lifetime, but for now, I am going to savor this milestone I didn’t think I’d reach.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

Forlorn Hope. The words echoed in her head. Who knew such a profound phrase could be found on the side of a wine bottle? Here she was, hours later, and they still reverberated around her mind. Forlorn hope. Those two little words explained her state of being better than any psychology or philosophy could. She had lost all faith in the world, had sealed away her heart to the pain and suffering, watching it all collapse around her. Forlorn hope. If she looked deep inside herself, she could still find that little flicker, abandoned, lost, unable to find the light. She had a choice now, she realized. She could leave that small bit of hope, that shred of optimism, hidden in the bottom of her soul. Or she could bring it with her, nurture it, help it flourish and reach out into the world. Forlorn hope. Either way, it was time.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

I used to dream about someday.

I dreamed about having my own beautiful home, filled with bright sunlight and soft furnishings, cozy armchairs and colorful art. I dreamed about having a kitchen that was just the right size, with pretty tile backslash and an island in the center. I dreamed of having a large bedroom, maybe with a vaulted ceiling, maybe a canopy bed, but definitely with a walk-in closet. I dreamed of having my own library, with a comfortable chaise and rows and rows of books. I dreamed of seeing the ocean, or maybe rolling green hills, or a mysterious forest, right outside my window. I dreamed of fireplaces, swimming pools, and wrap-around porches.

I dreamed about having a job that I loved, of doing work that changed the world, even if in a small way. I dreamed of being a curator, of walking the halls of a gorgeous museum, bringing together art, history, stories and science. I dreamed of being a librarian, quietly helping people find the narratives, the facts, the knowledge they needed. I dreamed of being a writer, of having my own little study in my beautiful house where I wrote words that spoke to people around the world. I even dreamed, as a young child, of being president, to help make the world a better place.

I dreamed of love, of having a partner who I could trust, who would make me laugh, who I could be myself with. I dreamed of a love that was equal parts quiet evenings in, reading studiously, and raucous fits of laughter over things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. I dreamed of caring, and being cared for. I dreamed of a love that was comforting and exhilarating, that made my heart race and my soul feel it had a place to be free.

I dreamed of a world where people were kind to each other, where everyone had value for the sake of being alive. I dreamed of a world where art and science, literature and math, logic and passion, could live together in harmony. I dreamed of a world where people could be themselves, do the work they wanted to do, based on their interest and their drive, and be treated fairly. A world where there could be peace between people, where reason won over righteousness.

I don’t dream of someday anymore.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes you just sit at the computer, or facing an empty notebook, and no words come to you. You sit, you struggle, you worry, and yet – you are voiceless. You read the news, and it all seems impossible. Fires rage across the world. People are shot every day, and no one questions why anymore.

And people lie, lie, lie. You watch the news, watch the trial go on, and on, and on. No matter what truths are brought to light, no matter what crimes or corruption are uncovered, no matter how much you scream at the TV, in the streets, on the Internet, you worry the liars and the cowards just might win.