Waiting for an idea to come

I want to write a story that is scary but does not cause me nightmares. I have always been fond of foggy waters. I am sitting in a reservoir with my feet in the sand. It is too cold to swim because winter is coming. How scary the thought—there are many things I wait for; winter is not one of them.

I could write about dreamscapes, flying through the water, and meeting creatures that are not visible when I am awake. These beings are friendly but they are afraid of me. The reality we live in is so scary to them! Our cars are big and loud and we work such long hours. These beings like to swim and relax and if we could see them, we might demand more from them. Is my desire to become invisible to avoid exploitation scary enough?

I can write about the haunting nature of loneliness being a human in this life. I sit with my journal and a pen in my right hand and I try to befriend the rocks. I like to connect with other humans. Most of the time I spend consists of waiting until we meet again. I enjoy watching the cloud show in good company. It is scary to be expected to speak about other things. I am not caught up on pop culture references and I do not want to study up on them.

I can write about the looming cost of rent once I’m a college graduate: the debt and the price of living. The scariest thing that haunts me the most is the prospect of waiting. I am so bad at it and I am good at doing it often. I wait for the day before the deadline to write a story about foggy waters. I sit by the reservoir (does that count—including a body of water into this narrative? The fear of not having a roof over my head?) and I could make a list of friends who I would share the bedroom with if we had the money to afford rent.

Waiting and forgetting. Forgetting what day it is and waiting for an idea of how water can be scary. This reservoir is my sense of safety. I watch a spider build their web between a tree and my leg and I wish building a home was that easy.

I think I have forgotten how to recite the alphabet. Is that scary enough? There’s a word for a poem using the letters in succession: abecedarian?

A Poem about Waiting

Because I spend

Countless hours

Dreading the present,

Ecstatic about the

Future, wishing to

Go on an adventure,

Hesitant to move.

I

Justify my lateness—

Kill my present self—for

Love’s sake. Love will stay in

My body enduringly one day, but

Not while I wait.

Or I’ll glow for a while, but we’ll

Part ways,

Queer and giddy and

Raw from our

Souls

Touching—respectfully. Then I’ll reach for

U. Then I’ll wait.

Very impatiently.

What can I do other than recite the alphabet—

Y,

X, and

Z—incorrectly—

then continue to wait.

So, I wait, and this scares me, and soon I will forget that I entered this writing contest. I will forget that money could be coming my way. I will wait for a while. I will forget that it is so unlikely that I will win. I will feel this anxiety and then I will forget how scary the cost of living is. I am good at forgetting my fears when my feet are in the water. I like to wave a stick around and watch pools ripple outward. I hope entering this contest will cause a positive ripple effect. I will wait to find a safe place to live and then I will forget that next year the water will be my only home. The other writers will better articulate why it is safer for me to afford living indoors.

I will wait for this story to upload and I will wait for you to read it. I will forget that you don’t know who I am—you don’t know my life experiences and circumstances, and you will forget that there is someone writing about a body of water (and doing it terribly off course) in order to afford a place to live. I will forget that I was this vulnerable to strangers across a computer screen. I will continue to pay for the monthly vocal membership, and I will forget why the number in my bank account keeps lowering. I will come to this reservoir every day and find solace in the stillness. If I wait well, I can see the Earth breathing. I will wait for the results to come and I will forget to check my email. I will keep my hopes up and I will forget that I should not expect much. I will read my abecedarian to the salamanders and to the creatures that lurk in the fog. I will wait for a miracle and I will forget what I'm so hopeful for. I will wait for the sun to show up and for a minute I might fully submerge. I will gasp. I will breathe fast. I will shiver. I will warm up. I will wait to find out if my words have any worth.