I am writer, hear me whine

People are judgmental. I guess it’s just how it is. I’m not sure how I became so easily affected by this but I have. Most people have a shield of achievements to deflect an attack of judgment. They have degrees, or you know, respectable incomes. So when some obscure, well-meaning relative says to them “you’re not doing anything with your life!” they can say; “on the contrary Uncle Milton (not sure why I chose Milton, just roll with it), I have a degree in whosewhatsit from the University of Hell and I make thirty-trillion dollars a year.” Though, I don’t think it would take quite so much to impress Uncle Milton, I suppose all it really takes is not trying to become recognized for something that he deems trivial.

I know I’ve got kindreds out there but I feel alone. It’s like most people are living on Earth, comfortable beneath a protective atmosphere that springs into action to incinerate the meteorites of others’ judgment. I feel like I’m on the Moon, with no atmosphere of conventional achievements to protect me, huddling beneath a manuscript while a rain of asteroids hammers down on my head. Ouch.

People only see me when they want to tell me I’m wrong. I want to be visible. I want my efforts to matter.

::whine, whine, whine::

Flash

I recently challenged myself to write a story under 140 words. This is what I came up with.

In the Beginning

The hydraulic door sealed with a hiss. Ten. I submitted to the memory of Earth, a place I would never see again, a place that would live only in my mind. Nine. The ship shook, and I heard her terrified breaths beside me. She was still a stranger. Eight. Why couldn’t it have been my wife? She was outside now, watching me flee with the one woman left able to procreate. Seven. Soon our planet would expire along with everyone we loved, and there was no guarantee we’d reach Eden before we died ourselves. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. There was an intense pressure like I’d never felt, softened only by the fearful fingers now grasping my own. What could I do but embrace my fate? Eve was my last hope, mankind’s last hope. Liftoff.

Just

It's a curious thing that I keep journals; fill books with personal thoughts that I never intend to share. I think part of me is afraid that people would find my thoughts inadequate or inconsequential, but what should it matter to me? What is life if the precious time I have is spent fretting over potential failure? So cuss it! I’m just going to be honest. My thoughts are random and may feign disarray, but they are mine to give to anyone who wants them. I may not change the world, but I can be a part of it, however small.

It’s strange how proud evil is while beauty is so coy. Evil boasts. It makes spectacle and feeds on attention. It’s splashed in our eyes like water from an over-chlorinated pool. It’s on the news; it’s in people’s minds. We buckle under the weight of its omnipresence and are so oppressed that we cannot see the good.

Good is humble, it hides in the crumpled shells of people we pay no attention to. It flows from the smallest things, like meals prepared in sympathy for a family that’s just faced loss. There is profound beauty in a green bean casserole at a potluck wake. Good exists. We need to remember that.

Ours is a society saturated by fear, evil’s old college roommate. They perpetuate each other, and those who claim to want to protect us shove fear down our throats. The government uses fear, so do churches, and businesses. Fear makes people compliant, submissive, vacant. It keeps us out of the way. What is there but failure if we continue to submit to fear? How can we heal the present if we’re so afraid of the future – and how can we heal ourselves if we’re so afraid of one another? 

The Weirdest Day of My Life

On September eleventh 2001, I was barely fourteen. My birthday had been just over a month before that day. I was only recently a high-schooler, having been a freshman for only a couple of weeks. I was already afraid; afraid of being judged, afraid of interacting with the vastly more mature and cultured "high school elite." I fretted too much over sounding cool and looking good, though that was rarely an effect I achieved. If my memory serves me correctly (and I'm sure it is), on 9-11-01 I was wearing a shirt with "princess" written on the front in rhinestones. I was a baby. 

Just before the first tower was hit I was in art class, intrigued to no end by the older boys in the room. I watched a select few sketch lazily over their color wheels and ignored my own assignment in attempt to commit their names to memory. Such things seem important when you're an eccentric “journaler” like myself. National tragedy was the last thing on my mind when another of these  boys burst through the art room door. He had a wild look about him and a girl riding on his back. I remember thinking how strange and cool it was to finally be in a school with such an obviously laid back atmosphere. Of course, that was before he spoke. "The World Trade Center was hit by a plane!" To my sheltered fourteen year old mind, he might as well have been speaking Icelandic. I had never heard of the World Trade Center. "Twin towers" was a phrase I only mildly associated with a Tolkien novel. I didn't understand why the classroom erupted, or why everyone but myself shot from their seats.

I followed into the impenetrable chaos of the hallways, scared more by my confusion than anything else. Everyone was there, people from every group, every grade. Teachers where visibly panicked, pushing their ways toward the cafeteria with wide eyes. When I arrived at the cafeteria, they were all standing with heads upturned, watching the high, mounted TVs on the walls with horrified looks on their faces. The screens showed a single skyscraper, smoldering from the ground. I knew from the frightened mutterings in the hallways that there had been two, and suddenly understood the gravity of the situation. The World Trade Center, a place that I had only moments before heard of, had been packed with people. I remember wondering how the plane had hit - the sky was blue that day. Surely the pilot would have been able to see. That was before the second tower fell.

I can't imagine the horror of being there in person, but when the second tower was hit, and the room exploded with screams, I felt more scared and helpless than I ever had. Seeing that what had happened, what was happening, was intentional made me feel instantly sick. The day changed for me then. Everything was foggy. Looking back it's strange to see the stark contrast between the vividness of my memories from that morning, and the murkiness of those from later in the day. 

I was released early to choir where we prepared a medley of patriotic songs for a special assembly that afternoon. We sang "God Bless America" with shaky voices on the lawn of the school. Hundreds of tiny American flags flapped from the ground. To this day I don't know where they came from. The marching band was there too, playing along in true high school band fashion. People were kneeling on the grass and crying. I wasn't yet mature enough to understand why anyone would cry over people they didn't know.

After school I walked home from the bus stop with a friend. I had never before been to her house, and her mom yelled at me for not taking off my shoes to walk on the carpet. Any other day that might have scared me, but on that day, the weirdest day of my life, it was a comforting reminder that in some ways life was still the same. Surely there was no real threat of all of our houses imploding if adults were still protective of their carpet. It sounds silly, but I relaxed a bit after that. 

Sometimes I wish I had been older on that day so I could truly understand the severity of what happened. Now in my adulthood I stand in awe of people's ability to heal. Our world will never be void of fear, but the human capacity to to be brave, to not lose sight of the "everyday" (like carpet), to pick oneself up and keep moving despite the threat of the unredictable, is truly remarkable. On this day I'm not just proud to be an American, but am prouder still to be something much bigger than that; I'm proud to be human. I hope some day in the future we all can come together as fellow humans, fellow people, put our differences aside and marvel at the beautiful simplicities that make us the same.