I'm blindfolded on the most even field the gods ever created. The grass blades tickle and shush me. Some far-off birds twitter in welcome... or at my foolishness.
I am tasked with creating a mountain on this flat place-- a Midwestern Kilimanjaro, if you will. The tool of creation? An indestructible teaspoon. I can't remove the blindfold, but am given my entire life span to finish the job.
Trying to "make it" as a poet/writer feels like the slowly forming mountain beneath my calloused hands. It's fun playing in the dirt, but attempting to form that pile into something large and sculpted is difficult. Getting the mountain high enough for people to care about seems impossible.
Seven rejections so far this month. I'm frustrated and sad. The spoon might be indestructible, but I'm not. Sometimes, I don't know why I do this to myself. I don't have to submit, I can just write in private. No one is obligated to read anything anyone writes. I expect nothing.
But, expectation and restless hope are different. I still hope that what I'm doing matters to people. I still hope that my writing gives people something they had less of before-- entertainment, understanding, beauty, etc. I still hope to connect with others through my art.
Perhaps "hope" is the mountain-making spoon. Perhaps, if I refuse to let go, part of me will be unbreakable, too. See you on the summit.