There are moments, breathless and terrifying moments, when I realize that both I am mortal and that nothing I have done thus far matters. I have made no difference. I have made no change. No one will remember me. In these moments, my pulse speeds and I stare, my face flushed, my hands clammy. An anxious feeling swells and tightens in my chest. I must act. I have to. Time is running out. I will do something. Be something. Say something.
And as quickly as this activist feeling peaks, this "nothing-can-stop-me" feeling, this longing-for-change feeling, the moment passes. My pulse slows, the anxiousness loosens and I reside, again, to the lull until there is another wave of mortality that slaps me in the face, wakes me up, and begs me to be anything more than I am. A suggestion inside myself to notice that something is not right; some direction to be better. An order given that I am not sure I will ever follow, lest it stop my beating heart.
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