Right now, people are tense. The future feels like a weight pressing on the chest. Anxiety is everywhere, in the streets, in our homes, in the spaces where we try to think clearly. It is hard to sit still, to trust, to make. And yet, that is exactly why creation matters.
Everything you make matters. Every book, every chapbook, every scrawled page, every street mural, wood carving, every zine left in the bathrooms of rest stops—it matters because it is a declaration that someone decided to engage with the world instead of retreat from it. The act of making is the act of persistence. The act of making is refusal to surrender to the grind of distraction, despair, or indifference.
Big books, small books, ephemeral works—they all speak. They leave a trace. They are arguments against the erosion of attention, against the collapse of care. They remind people that someone saw something worth saying, worth showing, worth preserving even for a moment. You might not see the impact immediately. You might never know who reads, who shares, who keeps. That is not your responsibility. Your responsibility is the creation itself.
There is still hope in making. Not the hope sold to you as comfort or easy victory, but the hope that lives in the act of engagement, in the choice to place something into the world with your own hands, your own mind, your own voice. That hope is stubborn, precise, yours.
Pick up your tools. Write, paint, paste, print, carve, arrange, design, draw, write again. Keep going because the world needs what you can make. It is necessary.
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