Through his speeches and his person Obama instilled a belief that we could do something not just with our country, but with ourselves, and it is in that spirit that I write.

The truth is that there are people on my corner who are hungry, there are women who are beaten, there are children who are scared to go home, and there are black men shot in the street by the very men who are supposed to protect them. The truth is that my friends are dying, and each day my father comes home looking more like the Cinderella man. It is in the spirit that thrives against these evils, the spirit that believes that in a world this messed up, the only solace is that we’re in it together — that I write.

So, I hold off on the beer, last night’s Entourage can wait, and the world won’t miss me if I don’t tweet for a few hours. It’s time to stop thinking about doing things for myself, and start thinking about what I can do with myself.

“Beneath the rule of men entirely great, the pen is mightier than the sword,” and beneath the rule of scoundrels, the pen is the only weapon I know how to use. So I stick by it, swerving between the lines of the journal like a boxer sidesteps jabs between the ropes — both well aware of where the ring begins and ends, but we fight on as hard as our boundaries will allow. Pushing against the lines until, eventually:

they break.