Letting Go

It’s one of those things that we all know is coming. One hundred and ten percent it is a part of life, yet we ignore it until our time comes. We hate to think about it, but it’s always in the back of our minds; sometimes taking them over entirely.

We pray for a savior because we know we can’t save ourselves or our loved ones. This thing eats people up; it eats them up mentally, emotionally, physically and literally. Seeing those at their time, on their deathbed, doesn’t seems real. They are the ones we learn from, look up to and follow.

I look at him now; looking down over him as he’s hardly breathing—the breaths both shallow and sore.

One issue after another I ask, “how’s he doing?” All I ever hear back is there’s something else wrong–something else taking the soul out of the one that was always there for you. The scariest part is not knowing that when they’re gone if they’ll still be there for you, or if they’re just gone. Forever.

Eighty-nine years here, infinity gone.

You think: where’s our savior? He’s never shown his face. We’ve never heard his voice, only stories from those who don’t know for sure if what they’re saying is true; they’re just hoping it’s true. I’ll someday find the answer to this mystery, but for now I watch him lying in that cold, white hospital bed gasping for every last breath. I look at every wrinkle and movement. The beeps of his heart rate monitor ring in my ears. How can I not stare at the one who formed me and think that, in this condition, he’s ever going to be here forever.

Quote from him… maybe advice that is emblazoned in your mind.

Someday, sooner or later, I’ll be in that same exact spot, with those people I taught looking over me, wondering the same thing I once did, “is it really all over for him? Or will I someday get to see him again?” Someday, hopefully a long, long time from now, I’ll find out, but the hardest part is my real life savior is uncovering this mystery for himself right before my eyes.

I’m not ready to go yet.

Hearing Voices

A big crowd surrounded by your friends—this situation, at least in a high schooler’s mind, can generally be connected with concerts or parades; however, not in this case.

Enough is enough

Guns, mass murders—two ideas usually associated with battles or wars, but not in this case either.

Enough is enough.

“I am usually the type to keep my views to myself and stay away from large crowds that protest,” but things crossed the line and enough was enough. This time, as the frigid cold snowed over the eyes and hearts, shooting chills down the spine, chattering teeth and wrinkling toes; you could see the sadness in everyone’s eyes, and you could feel the power in the silence.

“Enough is enough,” students said as each minute of the 17 passed. Their voices emerged amidst the silence that was beyond expected, necessary and desired.

Besides the little murmurs of a few students, there was never a point in time where so many teenagers, so many high school students, were so silent. But, this silence was louder than anything I’ve ever heard before in my life; ironic, right? Wrong.

High school students—with more power than anyone in the world—were outside, early in the morning, freezing, sending their love and fighting for what they believe in.

Hopefully others will listen.

Hopefully others will see,

That enough is enough.

For them, it may be. For her, she led the charge. For me, it was a journey that was only just beginning. For those lost, this movement became a nation of phoenixes rising from the ashes of hatred and hell.

Change

I hadn’t seen most of my family in years.

“You’ve grown up so much,” my aunt said to me when she first saw me.

I have a pretty big sized family, all of which are distributed across the country, but still at the very least family. And usually, not all the time, but usually, family time is all about who inherits the money and who gets the property; this time things were different.

Smiles, laughs, jokes and messing around roasts; it was a great time for everyone to be connected. But, in order to be connected with my family, there was a need for tragedy.

I was finally able to join in on the adult conversations rather than be the little kid that had to see alone, zoning in on the TV. And I realized one thing: nothing ever really changes.

As life goes on, people stay the same.

People act the same.

People talk the same.

People never change.

They say change is good, but maybe we don’t like change.

Maybe I still laugh at my uncles same old jokes.

Maybe I still enjoy the constant questions about school.

Maybe I still enjoy being the youngest one, getting the most attention.

Maybe I never wanted anything to change.

Power

Isn’t it interesting seeing people that have power control other people just by words?

I don’t mean the type of power that a bodybuilder lifts with, or the type that a boxer uses to pummel opponents; I mean a much more simple, less physical kind of power.

The power that everyone knows about.

The power that can be heard across the world.

The power that anyone can control at any given moment.

“I like my idea better, and I think we should do things the way I want,” is exactly what this professional power talker would say.

It’s the type of voice that rings your eardrums as each and every word vibrates through. The type that sends chills down your spine as if you were stranded in Antarctica, alone, without shelter having to deal with the chill of the powerful winds and the powerful freeze.

No, this powerful voice is not a result of screaming; rather it is from the power in that voice.

And the will to possess that power and put it into action.

Love

I can feel my palms sweat.

I can hear my voice crack.

I can see myself shake.

I think I’m in love.

Or am I?

I really don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. I’ve seen movies and TV shows of lovers, who are always smiling until their cheeks get stuck, or blush so hard that they turn bright red, almost like a tomato.

Or maybe it’s all a lie.

Maybe I’m not supposed to feel my heart happily and nervously pump through my chest. Maybe I’m not supposed to laugh uncontrollably, shedding tears of laughter that drip down my cheek in a chilling, yet enlightening matter.

Maybe it was just those movies and TV shows educating me on a fairy tale matter, that in reality, will never exist.

The hardest part won’t be having the feeling of my palms sweat.

It definitely won’t be hearing my voice crack.

Or seeing myself shake.

But the hardest part will be trying to understand that I had this image in my head, perfectly clear and non-pixelated, that I will someday find a fairytale with happiness and love, with laughs and smiles, with accomplishment and content, and that I’ve wasted all my time trying to reach a non-existent star in a galaxy far, far away.

Experience

“Learn from my mistakes.”

“I’ve done that before; it doesn’t work out well.”

“Just ask me. If you can think of it, I’ve probably done it. I can help.”

I constantly hear these phrases from people older than me, and it makes me wonder: will I say the same things when I’m older?

I hope not.

Yes, everyone makes mistakes, but I hate to see those mistakes burn people up like an internal wildfire.

And if I can think of it, someone’s already done it, so how can I make the same mistake as them?

You live and you learn.

Why can’t you live and then learn?

Sounds like a plan to me.

But yet there’s another impossible plan right there, and therefore every mistake, every regretful decision, and all of those poor judgments will always haunt me.

“Short memory.”

“Forget about it.”

“Don’t worry.”

Every phrase, sentence, opinion or tip there to help me only digs me deeper into the hole that nothing,nothing ever changes.