Going Fishing with Impostor Syndrome

Sometimes, I just sit by the pond with my hook cast in deep - waiting to fish out a new word. Occasionally, the fishing rod will quiver; hopeful with the weight of another a possibility. I’ve grown too accustomed to these epilepsies, so I let them pass - wheeling the reel with practised detachment - all I hear is the gentle trashing of the water and the metal squeak, with labour - even my sore muscles don’t mutter assurances anymore.  

I hoist a single word out of its home and watch as it lashes mid-air - a little surprised at its surroundings, and already a little disappointed - knowing where it will be. I drop its throbbing body, along with the others, waiting for it to acclimatize to the cheap, dirty slabs of ice and the writhing bodies of its mates - they’ve all grown stale with the wait - pungent with disuse. I slam the cooler shut, splaying little flecks of ice all around and sink back into my easy chair - relieving myself of a dispassionate yawn - my dry lips creaking, in pain. 

The ice, like awkward jigsaw pieces, lie strewn across the wooden beams, not knowing what to do. But that’s alright - they don’t have much longer - their jagged ends already drooping with heat. So much like Helen after Troy and my tryst with countless pens - they never stood a chance. 

But here, in the muggy afternoon - my head is a quiet place. Spotify’s rotary of playlists has silenced the crickets and my thoughts - both as pervasive and possessive of my mind - as any native of a bog would be. Today, we are all sedentary - amiable, even to the exacting white sheets and the acres of pond water - with so many words to catch and so many words to paste. Today, panic wilts into all my misgivings - both ecosystems, lulled into a summer’s sleep - unperturbed and unhurried. 

A notification pings on my phone, vibrating on the thin, tempered sheet of day time slumber. With just another finger press, it would break into shards - baring open the nexus of nerves, sinews and my inky blood vessels. I let the phone be; unwilling to disturb the song and the afternoon. The sky is painted in a bold acrylic colour - bright, and arid - with not one bird in flight. The water is just as still - it’s hard to tell the two apart, both mirroring each other with dramatic precision.  

And like a child, suddenly determined - I want to run my fingers through the placid water, splashing it awake - like dropping a ladle in a setting bowl of pudding. I heave the fishing rod back and swing the hook into the water - picking out the first word of my sentence. I dig out the rest from my cooler, lining them up by size and sense - piercing through their soft middles with a needle and thread, tying each line off in a neat loop - like frail garlands of white flowers. I am delirious - scampering after the words that slip away - their skins, slimy with my desire. I wrestle with some, I cajole the rest. Many moons and maelstroms pass, but I keep weaving with worldly abandon; a quilt out of misshapen words - stretching them thin to glue the gaps and pressing them down to origami folds - plugging in, the pigeon holes. I take a step back and beam - ear to ear, snug with success. 

Noticing the dark, I get to packing. I lock away my thoughts in their trusty pencil case and saran wrap the odd-shaped ones; stowing both away, carefully. I gather armfuls of words - languishing unused, browning with exposure - and throw them back into the cooler with a soft goodbye. I settle back into my chair and take my first breath.

My phone buzzes again - beseeching - pining for my attention. Oh, all the better  - because now, I have something to say. I bring the phone closer and the night is ambushed by its cold, white light. I scroll past the messages - replying to the ones that ask about my whereabouts - serenading the ones that came with a deadline. All was well, finally - all was very well. 

Nobody notices, not even I - but the air is more clipped - nipping at my skin. My insides are still toasty for regaining human contact, warm from swapping emoticons. I ask a friend to wait, while I clear my inbox - wary of promotional emails outnumbering the important ones - the handiwork of zealous retailers. I am wading through the click baits - swatting the wily ones away. Finally, all that is left are my subscriptions - literary magazines from busy cities, bylines by enviable names - telling stories, that even my dreams were shy of.

I click on one and read. And in an instant, I am sinking - the interface is now quicksand. The words are acrobats - bending in ways that I never imagined - chemical experiments, dissolving in spaces I never fathomed, leaving a foreign aftertaste. With each word I read, I dock off a number from my slate - committing the patterns to memory - pinching myself for not having thought of it first. I’ve trekked down the essay - picking it bare and circling words for my own use - mournfully sniffing around its glorious carcass. 

My skin is bleached of all colour. Funny, because people almost always complain about turning, a telltale green, with envy - but fitting, that I should be left with only it’s watery, much paler - a knock off.