Not too long ago, I was flipping through the journal I kept in those days and I found an outraged entry about Annie, penned by my jealous twelve-year-old self. I began to laugh at little me, and I laughed and laughed. Then I wrote this poem.
Optimism comes easy to children who are surrounded by caring people and protected from sad stories. But this whole planet is groaning under the weight of its sad stories, and any assessment of the world that doesn’t take them into account isn’t a true one.
I’ve watched fear bloom in my heart like a Venus flytrap, snapping at any beautiful thing that dares to flutter too close. And I’ve decided: this joy thing is not child’s play. Joy too can be an act of resistance, as many people before me have observed.
