what i mean when i say im writing

(Signs of the Times is a work of fiction based on true events. Views expressed are the characters’ own. Viewer discretion is advised.)

I’m a failed writer. A colossus with thunder thighs straddling deep oceans, the water splashing at my knees. Hundreds of rejections in a folder in my Gmail. Watching opportunities rot, a snake slinking through the fig tree. Read the paper. Drink coffee. Dream up stories that only my father sees. (love you, dad.)

I’m a failed writer that will never catch a break. A book deal, an offer — nothing seems like a win. A hampster on a mental wheel, spinning circles under the sun and moon. Nothing feels real. Trying to unpack ontological problems and beginning to wonder when words are ever just sounds — if ever.

I’m not failed, I’m just a writer. It’s part of the deal. Something inside I’m exorcizing. But if it does leave me, will I still write? If things get worked through, what’s left inside me? Something pure? Something empty? No.

I am just a writer. Working through life and convincing myself. Looking out windows and listening to doom metal and flamenco on purple clouds at sunset. Spilling ink on my hands and rubbing my eyes, seeing the words drip down glass panes.

I write. Sometimes too much. I’m told to tell more. Don’t always show them. Hold the cards closer to my chest.

Writing: An empty movie theater in my brain I’ve rented out. I plug in my hard drive to the projector. Turn out the lights. Advance the slides. Memories from my life. A younger me plays piano arpeggios beside the screen. He smiles at me. Unflinching, not blinking. Chubby cheeks and buck teeth Lights up. He’s gone.

Shows over. Go home. Shows over. Go home.

A journalist died. Riot police bash pallbearers.

Shows over.

A woman gives birth on a stretcher in the snow.

Go home.

A fiddler plays to a crowd. No one listens.

Lights out. Lock up.

You’re still here?

Go home.