I don’t mind being vulnerable today. It’s one of those days when I wonder about the point of my writing journey. Here’s what triggered it: In the past week, I received updates about the poems and short stories I had sent to magazines and contests. None of them made the cut. A few more rejects to file away with the previous ones. So this is one of those days when I sit and sulk a little. Wondering what I could have done better, wondering if it’s worth the effort, wondering if I’m chasing an illusion.
Tonight is one of those days when I feel tiny and insignificant as a writer. One of those days when my mind has shut down, when my rationality has deserted me, when gloom seems to cover me in its shroud.
I know such phases come and go. This one will too. I only hope the rainbow appears soon enough.
I looked through my poetry folder for inspiration, something to cheer me up, even give me a rap on the head and pull me out of this downward spiral.
I found a poem I had written in June 2014.
A sky of sadness has woven itself around me.
I have tossed grain into the fields,
the harvest is yet to make an appearance.
Years have passed, I have sharpened my tools.
My works lie in a shed, dying unnoticed,
Life seeping out of them through their fingertips into the earth.
Outside, birds make music, and in the nights the city dances to life.
I have been grinding my way in this well,
and still I am neck-deep in the water.
The waters have been rising all the time.
From ankles to knees to the waist.
A rope dangles near me.
It has been here since I ventured into this well.
All I need to do is grab the end and help myself out.
But that would mean abandoning the masterpiece I am creating under the water.
That would mean accepting an easier life.
I have to stay here and finish what I set out to do.
If I am good enough, I might create something beautiful.
Till then I have to keep working in this well,
even if it gets deeper,
even if it gets darker.
This is my calling, this is my curse.