Stupid shit. Why do you put yourself through--I mean do you enjoy louting about like some lame dog. Quit eyeing every person that passes by hoping for food. hunt for it, fool. Take what you want or-

But no, this does not suite the color of my thoughts at all. Ah, where is the root? I wonder, to my frustration, somewhere buried deep inside, drilled down like a worm, burrowing… burrowing… I can feel it leaving maggots in my brain. They chew away, the little doubts. And the source is nothing but frustration. To put something at the very pedestal of your faith, to be enthralled by a new idea and then have it shot down--I feel like an unlucky young duckling in flight for the first time during hunting season. But it is unfair of me to voice my frustration, everyone gets this way. In a world that scrambles, only a few fireflies are ever meant to shine in the insectial swarm. Just not my time, I suppose. Not my time or chance. I wrote a piece once, would you like to read it? Probably not, but it is a beautiful thing, the proudest piece of writing I ever wrote. The pinnacle, even, to describe this pulsing emotion. I wrote it months ago, and I realize the feeling’s cyclical, like ducks migrating. Can I help then, to be caught in the throes of disappointment every once in a while?

A calling is a tricky phrase. I think I’ve found mine, but despite how long I wait the phone never rings. And no matter how many times I call for it, all I ever receive is a busy tone. I always manage to lick my lips as I press in the numbers, and my fingers constantly drum a hundred, no a thousand times, as I wait in that never ending pause: that limbo of silence where anything seems possible, where God could answer, or my eight year old sister.
And if I could reach someone, I would be satisfied. But no, just long days sitting and watching the phone, and working up my courage so that I can hear another busy signal. My knees sometimes tremble at the thought, but I pretend they don’t. I remind myself of all the people who encourage me not to give up. I try not to think of the things I knew they gave up on. Some of them pursued what I am now, and they just gave up with time, but no, not me. I am a form of redemption! I will carry on their spirits, their influence will show its merit here and everywhere my words go!
Still, a busy tone.
Disappointment, quite frankly, sucks.
The loneliness is worse, though. Doing this is impossibly hard and radically misinterpreted by everyone it seems. I’ve had teachers read over and over before I would ask, “So did you get it?” Their answer would always prompt me to nod my head halfheartedly and say for their sake, “Right… I was worried it would be too hard to understand…” I suppose squinting scholars
should debate and argue for a writer what they thought. I’m sure that if I put my close confidantes in a room and let them read this, they would come up with their own ideas.
And that is why I keep calling. Waiting for an answer, so that maybe I will see one person that gets it. I want to hear that person tell me, “I understand.” They would not have to tell me what was understood, just that they got it. One of the few, maybe the only one, but at least the gap was bridged, at least I stepped out of that wormhole of silence between the pressing of numbers and the busy tone.
For now, I wait. Listening to the ticking of the clock and the steady breathing of my heater.
I’m amazed cabin-fever hasn’t set upon me.
Sometimes I just want to pound my fist on the walls and shout, “You owe me this much! What have I done that keeps you!” But I don’t, afraid that my noise may cover up the ringing of my phone. I feel trapped and heavy, yet light-headed at the same time. Distanced and aloof, the rest of the world turns and I stand still, aging and waiting for the call. When I get fed up, I
consider calling again: I eventually groan, get up, and walk slowly to the phone. And in that pause, after I dial again, I’m reminded of all the little times I thought I heard the phone: honorable mention flashes to my mind, regional winner, school winner, a red ribbon with gold lettering that spelled “Second place.”
Madness threatens to seep in, and I get scared. I’ll pace until I nearly collapse, and I’ll want to, but instead I sit myself back down, telling myself, “I cannot rest. Will not rest, I might sleep through the phone if I do.” I live in a world of silence so I can hear a sound that never comes. All I know are the numbers and the dial tone, and that yawning silence in between that screams at me. I want to scream back, I want to rip the phone out of the wall and fall into a fit of tears.
But I can’t.
Too many people would find it unsightly.
And I wait. And I write. And I listen. I always listen, but never hear anything but the flinching of my keyboard as I press down endlessly on the keys, or the recoiling of the page as I stab my pen at it in hopeless frustration. Yet the words carry no weight so long as the phone never rings, and I don’t care anymore about what they say. I do it because it’s expected. I remember when I was naïve and would wake up from a fitful sleep with the words, “I’m going to be a writer,” springing from my lips. The sunlight would always spill through the windows and warm my feet
when I made my way to the phone. I’d get the same busy tone and shrug it off, muttering to myself, “The next one will be it.”
Always the next one, and always the one after that. So sure of myself, I never notice that the sun ebbed a little from the sky every day. Now I go nowhere because there is no longer anywhere to go. All I want is that phone to ring, that goddamn phone to finally pipe up, “Wake up, your future is finally here!” I’m caught in a perpetual pause, though, neither waking nor sleeping. And now I mutter to myself, “Please, please let it be the next one!” I wring my hands after I put it up, go sit down and try to convince myself the world is not collapsing on top of me.
And I edge by in silence.
Because my words have yet to reach someone.


Ah, and Deaf Calling it indeed can be. But not the fault of anyone, just everyone, and thus I can’t throw blame about. Patience, is the only course, I suppose…