SuperNova Afterglow

It Might Seem Stupid When I Think About It

I submitted a short story several years ago for a contest on the Reedsy website before a five dollar reading fee was added. I did draw a satisfying response from a reader and nothing more. I haven't submitted since. It's not the cost that could pay for a meal or lack of anything like merit or accolade. It's because I stopped believing in myself and the institution of another's appraisal in a format that could note my writing and/or the worth of my words, good or bad.

It's been more than two years and the weekly prompts fill my email inbox, some perused, none deleted. My logic for keeping the five weekly suggested approaches to themed prompts is because I might be inspired to write a story one day, regardless of contest, that might be pretty good, worth more than an aside, light the reality of the literary environment I've lingered in most of my life. I'm as yet blind to it.

Whatever catapults me out of bed in the morning is not to seek the love of any aspect of this world. It's not to conjoin with internet villages with whatever notions. It's because I have to keep living. And, not for me. There are people who rely on me, in who's service via loyalty I'm charged. It's not for reciprocation but to feel I'm worthy enough to belong, in a place where I am welcome. Otherwise, the bed gets my ass all day.

This could go further, but it was from a momentary glance at incoming email that set a course on petulant thought to see where it might bring me. And, I am here sharing this meandering. Temporarily, feels worthy of blogging, what ever audience, aside. Might be worth thinking about, as I enjoy a second cup of coffee.

8.22.24

Did I stay on topic, or stray?
Do I add layers, further context, spill my heart away?
I've emptied more than I could, mindless and errant
soaked a stack of papers, once stained a cushioned chair,
clumsy that way. Fingers stray,
text disappears, tears could form if I would care.
But, it's just another ordinary morning
in an ordinary seat by the window in a world replete,
resplendent and ignorant of one who dares
join a breath with gas molecules that aimless fill
a hollow space.

What have I inhaled, these vapors deep in my chest,
when it's a Sunday morning with no paper, and
in a recliner could rest? Stupid iPad.
Stupid, stupid user.

Here's a dime. Now, go outside and play?
Maybe, a quarter or fifty cents?
What worth you?

It's not worth but the avenues I've visited
to help them cross the street
that makes me feel complete.

Then, you're cut off.

Nowhere else but my room?
I have no clue.
Write! You damn idiot, echoes in my sleep.
Where are the sheep?

Nothing couldn't mean anything, right?
Not lost in a helpless plight
I know I have to fight
but does information have to tell me
it's a windmill?