Why I want to be a journalist

I want to travel beyond the reaches of everyday experience and write a map which lays a clear, twisting path through the wilderness of distant places.

I want to nestle myself deep into the recesses of something awful and captivating, immerse myself in conflict and wake up shaking, half-remembering nightmares where the horror around me was able to penetrate through the skin of my objectivity.

I want to stare truth unflinchingly in the face.

            

I want to go to places abandoned and forgotten and hold the eyes of the world open until they’re blurred with tears.

I want to write about the dark, terrible depths of the human condition and the strength and courage that exist precisely because of the evil lurking inside.

I want to pull people through dark tunnels and lead them towards a small glimmer of redemption barely visible at the very end.

I want to write stories that ignite deep-burning fires inside of people instead of giving them hope.

I want to show suffering and despair with such clarity and conviction that the world never feels compelled to relive the events that lead to them.

I want to bear witness to the destruction of the natural world and write eulogies for places we’ve sacrificed while hoping, without expectation that we’ll learn from our mistakes.

I want to be as objective as humanly possible when reporting on anything, and as much of an activist as possible when selecting what that anything is.

I want to share stories that have been forgotten, give voice to the silent and remind myself that truth, like evil, is never as simple as you’d like it to be.