A few moments in tangible silence.

There is a place in my head and in my heart that I visit often. In this place, I feel an overwhelming compulsion to write. Anything. Everything. It's like there is something inside me that is waiting to be shared with the word--a grand idea or thought that I can brush my finger tips against but never grasp, never claim. I'm always chasing after it, but can never quite catch up. And after chasing for a while, I become tired and disheartened and abandon the pursuit, knowing that I'll begin again later when I'm stronger, more dedicated, and less afraid.

I'm there right now. The desire to write something that carries meaning has followed me all day, looming over my head like a grey cloud. A jumbled collection of thoughts and instances fueled that feeling. I've mulled these over in my head a thousand times, trying to glean some meaning or make even the slightest bit of sense of them all.

I took a power nap this afternoon and woke up with a gasp because of a dream I'd had. That was the first time I've ever had that experience. My heart was racing, even though I don't remember more than the fleeting image of a face and the fact that a question was asked. I rolled onto my stomach and thought for a while, trying desperately to reach into my subconscious and remember more than fractured images and that burning hot, tight chested feeling of anxiety and dread that comes when you don't know what to expect out of life.

On Monday, I gave a short presentation in German about Helmuth Huebener. He fought against the Nazis during World War II by covertly listening to BBC broadcasts and then distributing the truths he learned throughout Germany by way of fliers and leaflets. He was eventually caught and executed. He was seventeen years old. When I went to Germany with my dad, I visited the site of his execution. Today, it's a memorial to over a thousand brave men and women who gave their lives for the truth. I remember walking into that room.

It was one of two times in my life that I have felt my breath catch in my chest. The other was visiting Buchenwald. The flowers and wreaths--some left by the caretakers of the memorial and others by visitors like myself--were accompanied by a note written by a few elementary school aged girls. Their school was named for one of the resistors who was executed in that room. They thanked him for his bravery and expressed their sorrow that he died so young. It was so sweet, genuine, and pure that I teared up as my dad translated it into English for me.

I thought about Helmuth today. I thought about all the other souls who have given up so many things to bring justice and truth to the world. I thought about those little girls and their honest gratitude. I wondered if I could be that brave, that selfless if I were to be faced with the things Helmuth faced. If I knew what he knew, would I have had the courage to speak up? Those questions are all hypothetical, but I think they're worth asking every now and then. Am I as grateful as those sweet little girls? Do I recognize the great lengths that people have gone to and still go to in order to make this world the best it can be?

After having these thoughts/experiences and several other small occurrences that made me think, here I am. Sitting in bed at 12:41 trying to make sense of any of this, even though I promised myself I'd go to bed on time today. I'm left frustrated and even more confused than  I was when I began this rambling post to try to form my thoughts into a cohesive message or statement. I haven't felt that rush of satisfaction that I get when I can accurately represent my thoughts in writing. Rather, I'm left feeling a little bit empty and dejected, because I want so badly to accomplish that.

All that's left for me to ponder right now is why. Why do I even bother to write anything at all when I feel as though I never accomplish what I want to? And this is why.

I write because it allows me think and feel and understand. I write because some words are best left on paper where they'll remain solid and unchanging, rather than floating around listlessly in the space between my mouth and someone else's ears. I write because it manifests to me my strengths and my many, many weaknesses. I write because writing a though makes it seem more real, more tangible that thinking or saying it does.

I write to share a part of myself. I write to remember. I write so that someday I can look back and see who I was at certain points in my life and watch myself grow. I write to leave some sort of record that I am a real person with real trials and struggles, but more importunately, that I am a real person with real triumphs and successes. I write to share my testimony. I write because I am so very blessed. I write because the world is full of beauty.

I write because it brings me joy.