The Vulnerable Truth

Sometimes, out of the blue, I want to call someone because I don’t know when it will be the last time I will hear their voice. People don’t get it sometimes- that life is vulnerable. It is precious. It really is. I have this fear that at any moment they would somehow disappear from my life. It can be scary. I guess trauma can do that to you. You don’t realize how life can do that sometimes until it happens to you. And I hope that no one ever experiences it- but that can’t ever be possible. There are things that we can’t control. I don’t know if I will ever learn to accept it. I don’t even think I am past the first stage of what they say the ‘seven stages of grief- shock & denial’. It might take a few more years or it might not ever be resolved. I absolutely hope that my future self will grow, heal and learn healthier ways to cope.

So sometimes, some people don’t understand why I get these random impulses saying that ‘life is short’ or ‘I gotta live life to the fullest’ or even when my optimistic self takes over: ‘life is beautiful- you really have this one life.’ My friends understand that this is my way of realizing that life really does happen. This world is filled with wonders. Some parts of the world already have their ‘wonders’ etched into them. Some wonders are the wonders that spiral through your humane head. Life and death- now that’s the true wonder. The polars of life. I’m sometimes stuck between two poles: life and life. Let me clarify: I live my classic day life such as going to school, talking to people, and going to bed- basically a regular day. But then that’s when life really hits me, and I am reminded of the effect it has.

So when it’s one of those nights and I am hit with those fearful realizations- I am hit with the vulnerable truth. And I get so lost in fear. I hope that one day I will turn these irrationalities to what they used to be… before the vulnerable truth took a toll on me. But for now, I need to rest these tired eyes and hopefully, tomorrow will be another step.

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