I’m sitting here dreading the schedule emails from editors, from declining machine heads. I’ve been told to send as much as I can to the sand moons. I geared up for years like any writer. We read books, and read short stories and read again to reread what we thought we read, and move on to write what we think is missing. Now I think about every writer who has written something because the story they wanted to tell was missing but no one gets to see it.
Anyway here we go as I parachuted up to the moon. I’d like to think I have done well for the last months, drinking several mugs and cups of coffees until my acidity discontinued inside my throat.
Now I wait. I wait to come back with no food on table, with dry lips with sharpened nails. I wait to be told my ascend to the moon has unfortunately been endangering because the rocket I chose had not enough oxidiser chemical engine for combustion. Enough to send me to the galaxy of the unknown but not enough to bring me back.
Even though I’ve already landed on the moon and placed the flag where it should be.
Minutes later I get a beep, I rush to it, any message from down there should be welcomed. To my surprise I’m told that I won’t be able to come back home. The months it took me to get here—this is befogging and tempering with my emotions clearly this is some sand moon jokes.
So there Iam— stuck thinking of ways to come back to nurse my wounds. Does this mean this was where I’m going to die ? Alone?
Alright… this is not so bad is it? I have to continue to find ways to not succumb to myself to more disappointment.
What am I meant to do here with this new information where the ground is moist and spongey? —It turns my skin to purple blue, where the air is not made for my lungs but here I was in the month of September with something only synonymous to the wind is rocks passing by…
I miss things when they were simpler, bread and coffee. We never had tea that was a luxury gifted to first borns. I digress. What I mean is discovering your passion can come with curses. Because the reality is I’m stuck here— or will be stuck again for eternity. I don’t see my self stopping. This is who I am, a person who gets into a rocket that is not ready and head up to the moon.
The most crucial point for me is how I do come back home to my self?
Do I swim through the ocean? do I float in the galaxy until I see black? My problems have suddenly become the centre of the universe because I wasn’t ready to just swim — to just float— even though it hurts. I’m no way denying that repercussion but we move, we leap, we make do with what we have.
To bring every thing on the fore front; writing is not about rejection, writing for me is about releasing an amalgamation of escapades for easy landing when needs be.
Rejection is like a control button for anxiety, the control I fathom and lament because I cannot control. And no amount of frustration or truck tolling of emotions can change this button. But I wonder can I control the urge to not press the button? — because it’s there already .
Today, I woke up I thought wow, I have not written a new short story in a while. The last one I wrote I sent out and was rejected but I appreciated that the editor had read my piece. But now I’m wondering did that rejection damp my inspiration?
Am I stuck in the sand moon for real?
