Yes, We all have to be Vulnerable

 

 

I was given the opportunity to be introduced and watch Ted Talk videos recently--not that I have a ton of time on my hands (that's not the point though). The lessons are phenomenal and no doubt have a connection to everyone. After watching The Power of Vulnerability one distinct memory came to mind.

 

Looking back, freshman year could've been yesterday. I wonder where all the time has gone. Three years. Three years gone. And one more one the way. I cannot see myself, however, as a Senior and to those who came after me, you are all still freshman. I don't want to see you grow up. But just as it is hard for me to see you all get older, I do too. Next year I'll be gone, although, but as yesterday began one of many "last", "last" does not mean "to end"; it allows for new opportunities. Most importantly, "last" never means forgotten.

 

Memories from the freshman year are still clear as day.

 

Creative Writing had to have been one of my favorite classes. And fortunately it was 4th period, the longest class period. As the twelve weeks dwindled to two, my final portfolio had to be created. I knew it our final pieces had to be edited, not by just anyone though. My teacher was taking on one-to-one conferences to edit pieces. Small naïve me had no idea what to ask her or how to approach editing my creative writing. I just wrote. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. In my eyes it was not something for all eyes to see.

 

But let me take this moment to be vulnerable and let you read this piece:

 

Answer Me

            Whipping against my skin, the wind agitated me.  Autumn leaves colored the bleak path ahead, dancing in the gust while carrying hints of memories I once forgot.  My bare feet seeped into the softening soil, slowly suctioning to the gooey surface. 

            Distant thuds of waves rebounded off the cliff in a reverberating echo.  Oceans mixed with a slight hint of forest pine swirled into my nose, provoking tears that became suppressed behind my mask, hidden to the world.  A tight smile, wired and jagged, pricked at my lips waiting to be shown to my world of hatred, I permanently lived in.  Emotion left my eyes long ago, turning a warm spring meadow to an unrelenting sea storm. Brewing. Just beneath the surface as if one drop of rain could unleash overpowering anger.  Enraged.

            Seizing one last full breath, I tore away from the exposed trial dragging my mud-soaked feet from the ground.  Feeling lighter than a feather, I sprinted away to the last place I’d ever see.

            Thinning from a bushel of tangled trees, I gained speed aggressively.  Increasing.  Breaths became shallow pants.  Air fleeted my lungs, coursing my throat dry.  Crimson hair caught within the mangled branches unsuccessfully blocked a road I’d already started to race through.

            From smooth to rough, slick to rugged, rocks slit my feet open.  Gravel flew in the air just as unseen words.  No solid surface to find through thick or thin.  Current physical pain slipped unnoticed as I gasped for air to inhabit my burning lungs.  

Red flashed behind my closing eyes.  Scarlet slid from open wounds plaguing my damaged figure.  A disembodied voice collapsed my world. Words began rebounding off walls, slicing each gash deeper than the last. 

Holding back whimpers another impact rattled throughout my languished body.  Rage consuming eyes connected to mine. Power enveloped his pupil’s, feeding off freshly produced pain. Wanting more; fruitlessly.  Abandoning the first body, distorted by broken bones, a humorless laugh curled from his lips.  Lifeless.  Cruel.  Inhuman. 

“M-mom?” my voice croaked from my throat.  Screams echoed silently inside my head.  Unceasingly.  Ringing pounded my ears.  Endlessly. 

Boots incased my vision, hiding my non-breathing mother.  Cocking back the heavy leather boot, it collided into me, jolting myself away from my living nightmare.  Inescapable.  The edge loomed ever closer, awaiting my fateful decision.

            Dwelling in the horizon, a half disk sunk under the ocean consuming the clear blue sky in shades of zealous pinks and passionate oranges.  Sparse clouds decorated the crumbling sky allowing rocks to perish under my weight.  Whistling wind howled against my ears.   Ripping through thin cotton clothes, the gust tainted the temperature touching my chilling skin.

            Mere seconds passed before frigid ice water cloaked my body, scattering my mind of any coherent thoughts.  Pressure enclosed above me, shoving me beneath a crystalizing surface, with help of falling momentum.

            Time wouldn’t heal scars covering my suffering body, for it didn’t exist anymore.  Icing water numbed my skin.  A cold fire ignited within me alighting dusted memories to ashes. Vanishing along with the rest of me, I was nothing more than a hallucination.

            A wish granted.  A life taken.  For once death listened to my silent cries of despair.

That's the exact advice my teacher gave  me. Be vulnerable. For writing, it builds characterization and connections. And same for people. It opens up for all other emotions. But to numb vulnerability, numbs all emotions. Vulnerability is not something we like, and it's most definitely not something we want to give into. But if we want to live wholesomely with love and belonging there will always be sacrifice.

This vulnerability applies to every aspect in life, no matter if we want to believe it or not. Knowing when to allow ourselves to be vulnerable is the key.

Feels Like Tonight

Nos·tal·gia [no-stal-juh, -jee-uh, nuh-]

NOUN

A wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one's life, to one's home or homeland, or to one's family and friends; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time; yearning for the return of past circumstances, events, etc.

 A negative connotation is linked to the definition, however, after reading Chuck Klosterman’s “Nostalgia on Repeat” I reflected on my views.

Klosterman claims, by transporting ourselves in to an earlier draft, it is up to the individual to find meaning to our repeated actions and miss the way things used to be. I agree.

I find myself always lost in music, running through phases of a few favorite songs. For me it’s natural to listen to one song repeatedly. I dive into the lyrics. I pick apart their meaning. I fall in love. But before long, I move on to find another intriguing song begging for my ears to listen.

Someday, though, my playlist—fill of songs I love, I hate, I admire, I despise—I reverse the clock for a moment, no matter the evoked emotion. A memory flashes behind my eyes and for a span of three, four, five minutes I wish I could return to the time. Weather I tell myself to live for the moment, learn, live, forget, songs are tied to moments I wish I could change.

One song that comes to mind is “Feels like Tonight” written and performed by Daughtry. I knew of this song at a young age. The carefreeness of it all overwhelms me. Yet instead of bring back time to when I first knew the song, I am reminded by the lyrics. I remember times where I could’ve not ruined a moment, an event, a friendship. I remember the days I could’ve made a difference, yet just let the moment slip through my fingers.

Now if my nostalgia is positive or negative, I can’t decide. But I see it more as a balancing point for me. For me, I am able to find equilibrium of my idealistic values.

If it’s obtainable, I highly doubt the perfect me—inside my head at least—to ever make an appearance. If it’s unobtainable, at least this nostalgic person is worth striving for.