- Artwork by Spanish artist Antonio Mora
I drink my bottle of Liquor everyday as I lay on my couch waiting for a time the World would let me tell her story. I stand up countless of times to re-read my mails on my laptop over and over again, the conversations between the Publishing houses and I, on how I could publish my piece. My heart giggles as I scroll up and down the conversations; the thing about writing is that when you are done, there is excitement in your heart until a person promises to read it and never reads it or reads it and doesn’t see the good in it. This is what I am struggling with, the anxiety of waking up one day to check my mail and hear back from a publisher recounting how he or she had read and liked my book or the rejection letter of how their publishing house wasn’t good enough for me to publish with. Here I am still waiting, checking my spam messages, my deleted mails to see if I had received a reply and had never known. If I let the voices in my head catch up with me, I may never recover, and so I have to write, I have to let the world know about the recollected experiences of a recycling woman.
When I close my eyes at night, I find myself acting out the experiences of this woman; I even cry in my sleep, stretch my hand to the other side of my bed as if to tap my husband, but the bed space is empty. He is probably underneath the blanket with another woman or at a club gambling with his wealth. I alone cozy with the few things left beneath my heart; anger and pain; the two things I reserve for myself to make me strong and forget the words of the man who had vowed to never let go of me. It is funny how I still wake up every morning to seat across different ladies watching their sweaty hands, and flowing eyes to catch a glimpse of their world through their mouth. Women seat on the long couch at the entrance of my small office, and wait patiently to be counselled by a counsellor who needs counselling. How pathetic, what a perfect match!
Adapted from my collection of short-stories