three confessions, an essay Options

[audory]

I am not prone to goodbyes.

There, I said it. My confession, out there in the open, susceptible and naked.

Like so many others, I like to believe that my weaknesses, the seemingly subtle knives in my side, do not exist. But the second goodbye wasn’t any easier than the first, nor the third, seventh, or eleventh. Each goodbye twisted and turned the blade deeper and deeper until it could no longer go ignored.

My first real, finite farewell was the one that changed everything.

The black, dividing rope stood behind me. And behind that lay my summer moments: the laughter, the people, the conversations. Behind that thin, flat rope, the experiences remained concrete and alive. Ahead, they became wispy memories, restricted to only my wandering imagination. I convinced myself that the transition would be simple. Goodbyes happened everyday, all across the world. What were they but a mere adieu, a collection of words and feelings that would whisk away as soon as they left my confining lips? I willed myself to believe that I was above the foolishness, that I was prone to goodbyes.

I walked. One foot in front of the next. Right, left, right, left. Repeat. I didn’t want to go. The daunting hallway ahead of me beckoned me to come forth. But I knew what lay behind those escalators and dusty, stale souvenir stores and security gates: home. And as far as I was concerned, home was the last place I wanted to be. Home was where I had to go back pretending to be someone I had, in the past month, gladly left behind. Home. The word itself felt cold and gritty against my tongue and teeth.

What I wanted was to turn around and retrace my steps back to that rope. I wanted to rewind time, to return the goodbyes that were exchanged, and to go back to the hellos instead. But time stops for no one, and I trudged on.

It wasn’t until the hallway surrounding me began to waver did I notice that I was crying. With each blink of my eyes, the teardrops erupted over my clumped lashes and familiarized themselves with my saltine cheeks. My feet refused to take another step and the urge to go running back was almost undeniable, almost. I had to be sensible. My right fist clenched my boarding pass and my left foot pushed forward. There would be no stopping now, no matter how blurred my vision became, no matter how loud my gasping breaths resonated along the bleached terminal walls.

I am not brave.

On the contrary, bravery had nothing to do with the walk away. Were I brave or like the so many heroines I read about in my countless novels, I would have followed my heart. But reality demands more. Reality demands self-control, the ironic drive that required me to surpass the heart, utilize the mind, and keep on stepping.

Countless farewells later, I still have yet to be brave or spontaneous. Unlike my confessions, I rarely leave myself out in the vulnerable open. Instead of taking Robert Frost’s less taken road, I opt for a form of reasonable safety and security.

I don’t let people get close.

Don’t get me wrong, there are still the friends, the laughter, and the conversations. But my relationships have grown to understand limits. With the idea that all things come to a certain end in mind, I guard myself from getting too attached. This way, when the time comes, the goodbyes are so much easier. They will still hurt, but instead of knives, these goodbyes become needles, tiny pinpricks on my fingertips. Small, sharp pains.

It’s for the better good. A year from now, I will be gone. Home will relocate and goodbyes will be in place. I don’t know how these monumental goodbyes will fare. All I know is that I have got to keep on stepping. Right, left, right, left. Repeat.

[Tung]

Wow, that was a very breathtaking essay you wrote. I loved it! By the way, did I mention how hot you are ;)?