I’ve obviously read Frank Herbert’s Dune.

It was around the time of my senior year of high school that I found a used book store. The smell of old books is an odd sort of pheromone; drawn deep in the nostrils, it’s a scent that leads to intense yearning and day-dreaming. I walked out of that bookstore with a bag of books that, in retrospect, hinted at the person I was to become.

Dune was one of those books, and when my eyes captured the words “terrible purpose”, something in me stirred. I was a teenager, so of course they did. I wanted to be part of something bigger, better, important. I wanted more than what I had, to be at the center of a universe that not only swirled around me but also depended on me. Paul was the hero I wanted to be, flaws and all.

As I grew older, the concept of terrible purpose never quite left me. I don’t think it’s unfair to say that some of us hold on to the belief that there has to be more than just the daily grind, that our lives have meaning. Some might call this religion. For me, someone who believes in the interconnectedness of all things, terrible purpose was that feeling in my gut letting me know I was on the right track, whether by choice or chance.

I’ve never wanted to blog before a few weeks ago. I’ve always wanted to write but have never allowed myself to. To say that I feel extremely vulnerable to put these words here to be read is an understatement; it is also very, very freeing. It is raw, and powerful, and I want to share my experience with anyone who will listen. This is my terrible purpose.