Monday’s, especially the morning of, usually make the shit list for a lot of people. It’s an interesting, fairly understandable social phenomenon that usually makes me try all the more to make the start of the week a positive one for both myself and the people with whom I come into contact.
This particular Monday morning, however, had me feeling sour, dour, and otherwise unenthused about the coming week. Here’s why.
That word ‘rejection’: we’re all familiar with it, know it intimately in some facets of our lives to be sure. Well, (and here I am going to do something that I will try very hard to refrain from doing in the future) to generalize, anyone who has been out and about looking for a career–or job of any kind for that matter–may have noticed that this process is laced with rejection. The silent kind where one hears absolutely nothing after sending an application or having an interview, the flippant and generic email informing that the position has already been filled, or (my personal favorite) the formal letter that comes in the mail in a standard-sized envelope, which already tells you everything you need to know before you open it.
Additionally, of course, there’s always the unavoidable and somehow inescapable rejection of the dating world. Finding that balance of how much to put out there, what to say to be honest yet intriguing, and when to run for your life is not the easiest of feats by any means. And, often enough, you think you nailed it and still end up being ghosted, dumped, or given some bullshit line.
It’s all rejection. And it all finds its target to some extent or another.
So, this morning, while being fed up, frustrated, and quite frankly on the verge of either crying and refusing to stop, or finding some cave I could curl into and, thus, take a hiatus from life, I somehow managed to throw myself a private dance party, which, in turn, gave my blood enough of a rush for me to step back from the morose alley my brains and heart had been hanging around in. I sat down with my notebook, stared at the page for awhile, wrote something acutely depressing on one page, and then realized that I was doing nothing and nobody any good by being a defeatist. In a literal burst of inspiration that came out of some optimistic sliver of my mind, my hand began to scrawl something meaningful across the page. That’s kind of how it happens for me: I get going on something without being certain of where it will lead me until I’ve finished. What I ended up with was something that I was not only proud of, but I also believed it with all my heart and thought it might do a few people a little bit of good to read it as well.
And here we are.
I also realized, during the day (which continued to produce a roller coaster of emotions), that my art, my writing, is something that I would like to share. Not for my benefit so much as for a means to connect to others. Producing something that may speak to or touch just one single person is where it’s at for me. After all, who says Art can’t change a life?