"tell me about a familiar experience that centers around emotion."

There’s nothing like it.

The muffled footsteps of people shuffling into their seats, the crackling of programs being explored. The smell of wood and dust and day-old coffee that lingers in the air - a sort of warehouse smell to which I’ve become so accustomed it almost feels like home. The lingering taste of the banana and vitamin water that has become tradition. All of a sudden I’m keenly aware of my every muscle, my every joint, the very air that enters my lungs. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The world around me has been reduced to the pounding heartbeat that seems to have taken over my whole body. I can feel my fingertips pulsating. I’m not scared, I’m not nervous - I’m ready. I want to get out there. I want to see what I can give today.

I feel alive.

A hush settles over the house and the lights dim. One more deep breath and then the click of my heels brings me out of my dark velvety cocoon and out into the open space where I am most vulnerable. I nestle into the curve of the piano, taking a moment to run my fingers over the dark wood lid, grounding me and pulling me closer to the music until I can feel it as much as hear it. Any leftover apprehension and doubt is carried away by the first few notes to envelop me.

The words that are the vessels for each floating note carry with them love, longing, sadness and joy. They carry me over and above myself until I no longer feel trapped by reality but surrounded by the beauty of Possibility. I am everyone who has ever felt anything before. I savor their passions and endure their fears, and in return I offer up my own soul. Everything I am, everything I could be, and everything I have been is on display, raw and naked. I have become pure emotion.

As the notes die down and I begin to fall back to reality, I gather up what’s left of me in an attempt to bring myself back down to earth. My pulse begins to race as I welcome the overwhelming rush and exhilaration of having thrown yourself to the wolves and survived. Trembling, I dip my head and lower myself in open gratitude, genuinely thankful for the reward of applause.

As my footsteps carry me back to the comforting thickness of heavy velvet curtains and darkness, I realize with a pang of disappointment that it’s all over - for now. Next time. I’ll be ready next time as well. After all…there really is nothing like it.

Story of my Life.

March 12, 2011. 12:37 AM. While completely sober, Cristina heads downstairs for a cup of Kool-Aid, which she brings to her room and promptly spills all over her bed. At this point, she isn’t even surprised at her clumsiness; in fact, she simply sighs dejectedly and trudges off in search of replacement sheets.

But what’s this? The self-deprecating acceptance of her clumsiness gives way to a new, somewhat unwelcome emotion when she realizes that, in a cruel twist which adds insult to injury, there is not enough left in the cup for her to take her evening medication. More must be procured, perhaps in a child’s sippy cup, or a sealed water bottle.

She heads back downstairs, annoyed and exhausted. Places the cup on the counter - so. Lifts the pitcher. Thinks twice, and lifts the cup. Determined not to make another mess, she slowly retreats back to her room, where, steadying the red plastic vessel with both hands, she drinks deeply without incident. Relieved, she places the cup on the desk opposite of her bed in order to minimize any more accidental toppling.

She crawls into bed and lets her hair out of its elastic band. As her jet-black curls tumble loose, she tosses the elastic aimlessly across the room, only to hear the faint click of elastic on plastic, and the sound of the cup tipping over, spilling its meager remains across the desktop.

The room is silent, save for her frustrated sighs. A moment passes, before we hear her turn over and go to sleep, mumbling only one audible phrase:

“Fuck. That. Shit.”

vulnerability

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.

C. S. Lewis