For my mom.
A chilly Wednesday. The magazine delivery man is late again and this damn typewriter is jammed. It doesn't really matter I guess I've finished what I set out to do. The stack of manuscript pages sits on my desk taunting me. Nothing to see here I shout in mind to the people passing by on the street below my apartment window. A half lit cigarette continues to smoulder in the ashtray beside my twitching hand. I'm this close to flying off the handle into a complete and utter rage that will leave no table unturned in this abysmal apartment which still has the reminants of last weeks cyclone. Why do I try. The clock ticks slowly from the kitchen, a haunting reminder of the doom that lingers. 45 minutes. Why do we create deadlines? I didn't create this one. Why do we make promises than? I needed the money. There's no money. There was hope for money. It's the unintelligble hope that caresses my mind every time I see a sweep of beauty it could be sunset, a puppy or the girl next door. It doesn't matter. I'm lost now. No time for another rewrite. The silliest part of all this that no one understands. People go about their daily undertakings without a second thought, the agony of a writer must go on. Why then, why are we so taunted with this dark misery that haunts our beings calling to us from the other side of the veil. Some feignt hope of being seen or discovered, or at least waking people up to a truth that life has more depth and meaning than they might otherwise understand. How about the damn truth of injustice that is our world. A monarchy of restraint that is our capitalist world and we are slaves to our new king and queen the almighty dollar and the corporation. But aren't we all aware of it now. Is there but a hope left even if it means breaking the mental chain to the marketing engine that captivates us and enslaves us in the daily drive for God knows what. And now I must turn over my inner workings and reveal the deep part of myself that even I'm resistant to face out of sheer judgemental fear. Actually it's a doomsday feeling that when I finally relinquish this deep part of my soul into the crisp judgemental world I may be left without another hope in the world and a letter will arrive at my doorstep straight from the Prime Minister's office stamped by the United Nations council. A thanks but no thanks. You're being here is no longer needed or warranted and on your way out please leave your personal belongings, that includes your clothes.. they were after all created in the acceptable world, the one we are telling you you are no longer welcome in. The system works just fine the way it is, thank you very much. Why would we want you to think and much less share those thoughts. If you want to pick up a shovel you can get in line and we might find some scraps to feed you, but unless you are willing to grunt then you're on your own. Oh, and don't think about using any of our boats to get off the island. Those are for the dignified. And you are just hopeless. Chime, the clock strikes 12. And before it hits the last note the phone rings, an old twentieth century rotary phone that pulses when you dial. The hairs raise on the back of my neck as I take one last quick look at the manuscript and the cigarette thinking I could burn it and jump out the window which may be easier than facing what is about to come. The fourth ring. I slowly reach for the phone. "Are you sitting down?" I have no words, I just sit stone cold in silence. "It's good. It's really good. Their going to send it to publishing next week. You can keep the advance." The pit in my stomach releases in my eye. The street below doesn't look as dull and dreary as it once did. How is it possible that the world can change in a single instance. Who carries the power to unlock the potential and the freedom, whose choice is it to decide who moves forward. Why me?