There’s a scene in Little Miss Sunshine, where the little girl presents her brother with a color blindness test. His dream is to be a pilot. However, he fails the test - and that means he can’t be a pilot. It was his biggest dream, getting out of hellish, mindless suburbia. He runs off, and after a long period of self-imposed silence, finally screams into the arid air of the desert. It is a powerful scene and a testament to the true power of a dream - and being very deeply alone in it.

Similarly, I applied for an MFA in Writing recently. A comment on my last post reflected that I could have added to it, elaborated more on it.

So here’s the movie of my rejection:

No, I didn't scream into the arid air of a desert. Instead, I took it in stride, waxed philosophical, as only a writer can.

There’s a scene later on in Little Miss Sunshine, towards the end, where the uncle, who had slit his wrists over unrequited love, yells off a pier, into the ocean, in front of the brother who can‘t be a pilot. He says, after a long rant about someone: “All those years of his suffering were worth it, because it made him who he was.”

When I got my rejection for the MFA in Writing, I didn’t slit my wrists, or break weeks of silence. I squinted at my little phone screen, where my rejection sat in front of me. And I thought: fuck ’em. I’m good without an MFA.

Queue the moody movie music.

I live in a coastal city in Northern California. The day I got rejected, I walked down to my city’s pier, near the boardwalk. I watched the sea lions and felt the salt breeze. I thought: I’ll be OK.

I think the hardest part about being a writer is existing alone, in silence. It’s just like a self-imposed silence, and when I hit “publish”, I scream into the arid air of a desert.

I become one with potential failure.

I’m not sure if my years of suffering “make me who I am.” But right now? I’m trying to figure out how a rejection letter will be a part of my story. And how I can best write about it. How it will fit into the screenplay of my life.

My final thoughts? That I think I’m an adequate writer, able to pass the test to make me an official one. But maybe there is no test, maybe it’s more important than that. Maybe I’m blind, not color blind, but I have existed in that moment - in the movie, the brother‘s eyes flash quickly when he realizes he’s failed, and can’t be a pilot. I too have now had a moment where I was totally alone to process, in a single “frame” of my life (if it were cinematic, which it’s not), that I am not able to achieve my dream.

So, alone on the pier of my coastal California city, I was left alone to process my failure. But it’s not that, at all. It‘s going to be a scene, perhaps part of a future masterwork I will be able to call mine, and mine alone.

I took a picture of the ocean and saved it to my little phone, the little screen capturing a vastness I cannot fully comprehend - just like when the movie-goer watches the uncle speak philosophically about failure, we can relate to it, without fully understanding why, its vastness.

Like in the movie, I realized life is messy, and I am ready to move on - perhaps alone, as I always am in my writing, but stronger for having failed. Stronger for having tried, for being blind but now able to see beyond it.

Last week, I applied for an MFA in Writing.

Today, I am going to dye my hair peroxide blonde.

Because I am all talk, apparently, with very little substance.

Five words isn't very many. You have an incurable disease. You are going to hell. You are a bad person. It's only a flesh wound.

Nothing I haven't heard before.

So why do these five words hurt?

Let me explain it as a Facebook post:

[I read a post on Facebook yesterday that lobsters can't scream when they're being boiled alive. Their exoskeleton releases a high pitched noise when it boils, and that is their scream - the only way they can release the pain.]

I put that in "[]" because it is contained.

When my hair strands meet the peroxide, they can't scream, either.

It will be contained, and I will be contained, in this little post where I share that my dreams were put in a pot, boiled, and were determined to be nothing but hot air.

It will be contained, in a hair salon, where I will ask the hairdresser to make me blonde.

In five words, she will say: I will not do that.

In five words, she will say: You will regret doing this.

In five words, the lobsters boiled to death.

In five words, I couldn't scream out loud.

All it takes is five words.

"Well... did It work?"

The young man heard his voice close to him

He turned and saw the old man sitting next to him, drinking a cold glass of water

Young man was confused

" scuse me mister? "

Old man took a sip of his drink

" I said... did It work? "

" did what work? "

" that plan of yours."

Young man became defensive, not as defensive to pick up his revolver; but defensive enough to fix his posture for quick aim

" what are you talking about old man?! "

" You becoming lonewolf and all... leaving everyone you cared about. "

Young man was shocked

" h...how do you know this? "

Old man finished his drink and ordered another glass of water

" you feel closer to yourself now? "

" I... I don't know. Im not there yet. "

Old man smiled

" but you do miss It don't you? "

" miss what? "

" people caring about you. People knowing you."

Young man accepted that old man knew things about his life and so became more relaxed

" I never wanted to be in the center of attention. But for a long time my actions made me become that type of man. I was the villain in other people's eyes, be it friends or other folks... even family members... I thought things would become more clear If I take this road but... not yet. "

Old man left his drink half empty and got up.

He looked at the young man

" don't punish yourself oliver. What you seek doesn't come from others. It comes from your heart. Make peace with yourself first and then... you'll be at peace with others. "

Old man walked to the exit

" Im here whenever you wanna talk young feller. I haven't forgotten you. "

Oliver looked at old man speechless

He turned around and saw the bartender cleaning the table

"Do you know who that was partner? "

" Who? "

" the old man who just left."

Bartender looked at him confusingly

" there was no one in the bar except you mister."

There was no breast from which to suckle

There was no hand to pat my back

There was no counting during hide-and-seek

Of playdates and parties I did not speak

There was no aisle to walk down

No hand for me to hold

At breakfast and at super

My heart grew hard and cold

In daylight and in darkness

My own breath sounds filled my ears

At twilight and at sunset

At the solitude I cursed

And when the end of life drew near

Reflection my only goal

I looked in the rearview mirror

Dark and Empty met my eyes

Relationships I had not known

I had wasted all my time

When at the pearly gates I stood

I knocked but no one answered

The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

Were nowhere to be found

Through eternity I would venture

Unescorted in the clouds

“Shoot for the moon,” they said. “Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.” And so I did. I aimed for the moon, shot higher than I had ever dared, higher than I had ever dreamed.

I didn’t quite make it, but that’s okay. They were right – I landed among the stars. And it was beautiful.

It was darker than I had imagined among those tiny pinpricks of light. From Earth, they always seemed so close together – little communities of stars joined together in their constellation neighborhoods. But once I was out there, I realized how lonely they truly were. Even the closest stars were hundreds of thousands of miles apart.

And now I am among them, a dark spot floating in a dark sea, occasionally passing other shadows, blacker than the inky void that serves as our background. Sometimes when I remember who I once was, I search for something to reach for again, but I think I’ve gone as far as I can go. There’s nothing left to reach for, at least nothing that I can see. I can’t even move backward because there is no backward; there is no direction at all. There is only blackness and shadows and tiny pinpricks of light too far away to reach in one timeline or a hundred.

I long to search for the inspiration and motivation I once had, but it’s hard to see by the light of stars and shadows.

Alone,

that's all I feel.

An empty pit of loneliness

stretched out before a meal.

Yet,

I cannot eat.

I stare and stare at the delicious feast

but I know it is not for me.

It is for others,

those that have never starved.

Those that live their lives

in the glamour of a bar.

It's not for me,

I tell myself its ok.

It's ok that I can't tell anyone

what I want to say.

Its ok

that my first language doesn't feel like my own,

Its ok

that those who want to hurt me

call me home

Its ok

I can't communicate

without shaking my hands.

Its ok

that I relate to the villain

and never really have a plan.

I hope its ok to be different,

to be lost in a crowd,

to know you're alone

no matter how many people are around.

I hope its ok

to feel what I feel

because I have finally convinced myself

that every single part of it

is real.

The alone nights, seeing things beyond the stars.

The days when I don't want to think about it anymore!

Those times where I don't want anything but to go to bed,

but I sit there

and stare

at a screen

instead......

Those days where I wake up and everything is pain, when I stay silent and just wait for the end of the day. I don't tell a soul, what happens in my mind. All the shattered glass and figments inside. Everything is breaking in the eclipse of time. Moment to moment reality unwinds. Everything dwindles into decline. I sit alone now, as I have many times before. Slowly going insane from the inventions of war.

Who are you waiting for?

O my heart, and why?

Silence is forever,

Loneliness is nigh.

Nobody cares for you...

Or for me

Then why do we cry?

Why do you dream of nights past?

Why do I make the memories last?

Be it a bed of roses...

Or of thorns

Our fate is to yield and sleep.

Let go of ties that bind us

And leave the liaisons behind us.

Your happiness, my heart,

Has always been

A cause for me to weep.

Who can you call your own truly?

To Who can I relate dearly?

There's no one to share this agony.

So, who are you waiting for?

O my heart, and why?

Silence is forever

Loneliness is nigh.

In one past 50, six writers rise to climb the side closer to 100, each with their signature work, each with their signature heart and mettle. You won't want to miss these minds in their elements. Positively fell in love with each of these pieces.

Here's the link to Prose. Radio.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOaO-9KYr6Y

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/LDW

https://www.theprose.com/BurialandUtopia

https://www.theprose.com/nonzerospin

https://www.theprose.com/Erallie

https://www.theprose.com/Mariah

https://www.theprose.com/ModernAntigone

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Why do I feel most alone

In the company of other people?

In a crowded room

Or bustling hall

Or on the couch with my lover

Now that no-one is around

It's different, it is merely the absence of people

Their noise and their smells

Their clothes and words

Their warmth and their coldness

But with them I feel

the void yawn before me

Inky, cold darkness

Filled with spiky things

And jagged feelings

I feel how I am different

Like my brain is strangely wired

Like all the words are beating at the door

Growling to be set forth

To do their wicked work

People make me unquiet

And yet I crave them

The mess, the warmth

The conversation, the drama

The many different smells

I crave them and yet

The sweetest moment is when

I leave, or they do

And serenity returns

To my private garden

Then I am alone

With the tangle of my thoughts

Which are sometimes wild

And violent

Maybe they kick and bite

But they are mine

No someone else's

My pain, my doubt

My own loathing

All my own

To be alone can be torture

Or it can be blissful peace

The absence of ripples

On the pond of my psyche

Perhaps, some days - even solitude