Tom's Foma

rolls through the midnight sky on gusts of wind, like some ancient Roman charioteer.

It pours buckets of salty sea water on the skyscrapers downtown, each one patched with golden glowing windows all the way

up and

down

It pours over

villages and

alligator-infested rivers.

It pours the same water that was in the ancient aqueducts.

The same water that was in Moses’ Sea and Hitler’s tea and your

grandmother’s tears while she watched her husband

be

lowered

into

the

There's a layer of self-doubt that lies between me and where I want to be. It's like an invisible pane of plexiglass that beats me back every time I try to go for the thing I want. Whenever I start to imagine doing something or being something or dreaming of a better life, I smack into the pane of doubt, "you're not good enough." Or sometimes it's, "there's no point. We're all going to die anyway."

I wrote a flash fiction story about a writer who became the last human writer on earth. A.I. writing bots had taken over almost all storytelling -- except for this one guy. And this guy was so consumed by his craft that he hardly noticed humans evacuating the planet. At the end of the story, our protagonist gets a voicemail from his friend who tells him that the last rocket on Earth had taken off without him. The writer puts the phone down and continues writing. 

I submitted the story to a publisher who was calling for submissions. They said they would offer feedback to anyone who wanted it. I asked because I genuinely want to get better at writing. I waited patiently for a few weeks, ready for whatever searing criticism was to come my way. Eventually I received an email that said something along the lines of "Your writing shows promise, however, we were looking for something more positive." As far as rejections go, that wasn't bad at all. They even complimented me. But later I wondered if they were just brushing me off. Maybe it was was so bad, I thought,  that they didn't even take the time to sincerely critique it. Bang! Smacking right into that pane of doubt.

At the end of the story I wrote, our protagonist continues to write even though he is literally the last person on earth. He does it because he has to. I would say he does it because loves it, but that's missing the point. He needs to write like he needs food or water. In the same way that those things nurture our bodies, creative work nurtures our souls. Writing and I have had an on-again, off-again thing my whole adult life. Most of my teenage life too. But I'm picking it back up again and I'm going to try my damndest to never set it back down. I'm much older and (arguably) wiser than when I first started writing, but I can't believe how long it took me to realize something as fundamental as "do what makes you feel connected to the universe." I don't always love writing. It can be challenging. And far too often my lizard brain would rather watch TV or play video games. Especially after a long day (which feels like most days). But if you're lucky enough to a catch a spark, you have to protect that little flame like it's your baby. Feed it and nurture it until it grows into a roaring fire. But that's just the beginning. Because then you have to keep feeding the flame or it will die down again. And then you'll just be left out in this cold, heartless world. Take it from me: a lousy, hack, no-good, wannabe writer.

according to The Buddha.

The very same Buddha who found that

the cause of suffering

is desire.

...but Life is desire.

Does the tree not desire to grow toward the sky,

despite gravity telling him not to?

Do the birds not desire to sing?

Do people not desire to eat, drink, and avoid clichés?

So if desire is the cause of suffering, what then should I do with all this desire?

What should I do with all

this

So, a long time ago, my girlfriend and I did exactly that for our anniversary. Only, we hadn’t been dating for very long. 6 months, actually. And even though it was cool getting all these well-wishes from the cast members in the shops and rides and stuff, it was also awkward. Because they don’t JUST wish you happy anniversary. A lot of times they try to start a conversation with you too. And 9 out of 10 times, the first question they asked was: how long have you been together?

And I know I shouldn’t care, but whenever I responded with “6 months,” I could sense them internally rolling their eyes at me. But the joke’s on them because I married that girl, and this year we’re celebrating our 5 year wedding anniversary.

“Look at your thoughts,”

She tells me,

I stand on the beach

And listen to the chaos of the waves

Washing by.

I look; I listen.

And then suddenly

I am the waves

The very waves

That were washing the sand.

As a spectator, you don’t realise

But once you become them,

You see the pattern

Rising up and breaking down

As if you are imperfection

Rising up

And breaking down

Just before they reach the shore

Just before I reach completion

Designed to fail

And yet

Breathtakingly beautiful.

I wonder if I look like that to someone

If I can ever

Look like that to someone.

The memories start welling up

And a teardrop almost falls when

The wave of my thoughts breaks down

With the shore in sight.

And just when

Everything seems inevitable

Unattainable

I rise up again

Rushing towards the shore

And this time,

Death doesn't hurt.