essays

A person walks down the street. I do not say that they are the protagonist of this story, for why should one person be any more important than any other? I give this non-protagonist (which is not to say there is anything wrong with protagonists) no name, and I do not wish to describe what they look like. I do not say they look like anything in particular.

I say only that this person walks down the street. They arrive at the end of the street and turn in a particular direction. I do not wish to say which direction. The less said, the fewer offended, am I right? Or am I left? I do not say one word should be used over the other.

This walking person (I do not say walking is superior to driving or rollerblading or any other form of transportation, simply that in this particular case the person walked), this walking person arrived a short or a long time later at their destination, which I do not wish to state. This person, as I say, arrived at their destination, and this person was happy to do so. I do not say happiness is better than joy, or even more desirable than a quiet contentment; only that this particular person, who happened to be walking in particular, was happy to arrive at their particular destination.

Karl El-Koura works a regular job by day while writing fiction at night.

Two wrongs don’t make a right.

Three rights make a left.

Eight lefts summon a déjà vu.

Sixteen identical turns—sixteen of anything—is a lot, though you return to where you started, having made zero progress in this, as in the rest of your life.

Thirty-two turns—and by now, left or right is irrelevant—and you question all the choices that have led you to the here and now.

Sixty-four turns—and the doubt grows, even as familiar landmarks blur together.

128 turns—and it’s time to face your demons. It is time to return home at last.

Today, I received a rejection from someone I wanted to work with. The sadness I buried earlier crawls back out as my eyes well up. I don’t understand. I hit all the right points, expressed enthusiasm and skills, and vowed to do my best. In the end, they went with someone else. I’m not sure if that person was more qualified than me or if they got in through knowing someone who worked here. My heart hurts reading those same words.

Thank you for your time. It was a pleasure to meet you. We’ve found a better candidate. 

It’s not my resume. It’s not my work ethics. It’s that invisible barrier I can’t break through. I punch and kick and it never comes down. With one more rejection, my spirits sink low as dark thoughts fill my head. The world’s crumbling. Wars erupting, lines being drawn, and death toll rising each day. Does it matter that I lost another job? In the end, none of us may have work. The higher-ups will look for short-cuts. They want to work quicker not better.

You have a lot of merit. You meet the requirements. 

 Still, buried deep inside this pain, is a glimmer of hope. I tried. If I died with nothing, at least I can die trying to make a difference. I can die trying to make something of myself.

 I’m rooting for you. I believe in you.

And that’s better than letting the rejections take over my life.