Flash

Wanted to share my last piece of work from my last class at Mars Hill, called Selected Readings, a class where the professor is given freedom to teach in areas of their own special interest. The last day entailed each of us giving a 10 minute creative presentation on our experience of it.

One of the main ideas of the class was paying attention to that initial feeling that comes up in you when you sit with someone. Knowing how quickly that initial feeling comes and goes before thoughts muddy the waters, I often had the image of a flash of lightning and the thunder that follows. I juxtaposed that image with my own questionings and fears of who I am becoming, particularly the fear of such a strong pull to become cynical as my own ignorance melts away.

The writing ends with hope in the reminder to never forget how to feel, especially cry.

(I also played a song at the end, Fix You by Coldplay, a song that always thrusts me into feeling, and has such deep words of wisdom in the phrase, "tears stream down your face, when you lose something you cannot replace.")


FLASH


“The cynic and the optimist are the same thing,” he told me, confidently defending the former, speaking against the less popular vote these days. And while I despise conforming to shallow popularity, I wonder if I am destined for that fate, as if a black hole is and will forever be sucking me and everything else into its bitter core. That black hole, making cynics out of anyone and everything that even hints at releasing their tight grip on ignorance. I envision my diploma, held pristine on the wall behind me for all my clients to see: Master of Arts in Cynical Psychology. I wonder if my progression through Mars Hill can be best described by the fact that I now swear out loud instead of under my breath. Have I simply moved from one pole to another, the optimist to the cynic?

I remember the thunderstorms of the Midwest. I am tucked deep beneath my covers, buried within my dreams. Until the flash of light. My inner world lit up. A few moments of silence, followed by thunder.

I always wanted to see the flash. I always wished I could freeze time when my fantasy world would suddenly brighten. My tired eyes could never stay awake. Instead I would get the aftermath, the translation of light into sound, the second best, the thunder.

The thunder spoke of terror. It said, “Get the fuck away or you will surely die.”

The thunder only spoke half the truth.

The flash is terrible, this is true. The flash is also one of the most beautiful things one could ever see.

Both the cynic and the optimist are scared shitless. Long ago they stopped believing the beauty of the flash, and now hear nothing but thundering terror.

In their fear, they try to fix, mend, make sense of such terrible beauty. They are the best fixers in the world, and the worst healers. Because they have forgotten how to feel. They opt for a meek translation into their endless thoughts that try to fix what can never be replaced. The cynic and the optimist have surely forgotten how to cry.