I want desperately to matter. I want my life to matter. I want there to be some purpose to it, some meaning. I am utterly terrified of being meaningless.

I was sitting outside tonight staring up at the stars, thinking about the size of the universe and the enormous amount of life it contains. I was thinking about how small I am in comparison.

I want my life to be precious to me.

I find myself now wondering where my heart is. Where my spirit is. I keep waiting for something to happen. Waiting for something to change me, so my life can begin. The life I imagine is possible for me.

It’s not events or circumstances I imagine to be different, but me. I imagine myself open and brave. I imagine myself reveling in the spectacle of it all, in the beauty of each tiny moment. I imagine myself alive.

I want to know my own heart. I want then to share it.

I’m not sure what is keeping me stuck. I don’t know exactly what it is I am so afraid of.

I believe that magic is real. I have touched it. I have held it inside my body. It hurts me to live in a way that is cut off from it, yet it’s how I live most days. The absence of it is the source of my discontent. I can imagine what is possible for me because I have experienced it.

It’s not enough for me to live. I want to feel myself be alive. I want to awaken my heart.

It hurts me to live a life less than that, and yet, most days I do. Most days, I do what I can to sleep, to dream, to stay ensconced in a fog. I live in nearly constant conflict with myself. And the truth is, I don’t know why. The scarier truth for me tonight is, I don’t know how to stop.