As a general assignment reporter, I typically cover whatever is sent to my inbox. I have my regular rounds — board meetings, planning commissions. Around this time of year, I write a lot about the flu.

In this particular assignment, I’m allowed to write about anything I want.

It’s tempting to use this as a rare opportunity to raise an issue I care about — climate change, gun violence, the eroding of checks and balances.

But I hate to admit: I really don’t feel like writing about any of that. And I hate even more how much I mean it.

The world sucks.

I don’t think it sucks any more now than it always has; as a living human, it’s just my turn to lament about it.

There are so many headlines and fears clouding my head. I sat down to write this, but couldn’t work through them all. So I penned this rambling instead.

Contrary to what this article may convey, I’m not a pessimist. If I were a pessimist, I would have stopped writing a long time ago.

But I am tired. I am tired of the clock ticking closer and closer to midnight. I am tired of war. I am tired of people not paying attention to climate change. I am tired of explaining why black lives matter. I am tired of indigenous lands being invaded by modern-day colonizers. I am tired of outdated immigration policy. I am tired of debating how much a life matters depending on which side of the border it started.

I am tired of Democrats and Republicans. I am tired of Amazon and its human rights violations. I am tired of getting my coffee in a ceramic cup every morning, not because it’s a minor inconvenience, but because I know that act alone won’t be enough to turn the tide on the climate crisis we face.

I am tired of the people and corporations who can, but won’t.

I know these issues are nuanced and complicated — that they won’t be resolved simply because I want them to be — but I am tired of accepting things as is.

I want so badly to offer an olive branch. I want to give solutions. I want to tell you how we can fix this, together.

But all have to offer is this: My favorite animal is a blue whale. Fully grown, they can measure up to 82 feet. They’re huge, and their home is even more vast. If it wanted to, a blue whale could swallow you whole. Because it’s a blue whale, and it’s huge, and you’re not. I’m not.

A blue whale could swallow us whole, and it would just keep swimming. Because it’s huge, and we’re small.

Notice I didn’t say insignificant. We’re worthy of love, and our country — our world — is worth fighting for.

But we’re also small, smaller than a blue whale. In a moment, we could be swallowed whole, along with our fears, and problems, and the unanswered, existential queries that keep us up at night.

I find that oddly comforting.