Did you know that there's a nerve in the arm that runs posterior to the humerus and behind the media epicondyle? It comes from the lower part of the brachial plexus and, when hit, emits a slight pain and tingling all at once. Approximately two hours post-hit, a contusion appears when blood vessels under the area of impact are damaged. Trapped blood from the vessels then congeal near the skin's surface, causing the tissues underneath the contusion to appear blue, black, or purple in color.
I know this because I have to. Because at the end of the day, they say, self-knowledge will be all that really matters.
^What's all this fra-fra about?!
Let me explain.
This morning, at approximately 12:45pm in my Experimental Methods class, for the first time in a long while, I was really, truly scared. It was only for a moment, though. A quick, sharp moment when the needle pricks your finger and you realize what happened only during the passing seconds. But after the fear came a loneliness like the ones I used to feel, and after the loneliness came a helplessness and a hopelessness I did not care for.
I thought about what could have caused this fear. Life in general, perhaps? The vagueness of societal pleasantries? The emptiness of the frigid morning? The preventable deaths of millions at the hands of power? Maybe it was the loss of spacial serenity because of my biophysical yearning? Or maybe I slept wrong last night? Or was this the beginning of the infamous omnipresent feeling of 'losing in the end' that I had managed to sidetrack my entire life?
Boosh emotions!
Then I took a deep breath, and rational thought came to me.
...No. None of those reasons were it. I was feeling afraid of myself this afternoon, that's what it was. In those passing seconds, I was feeling afraid of myself, and I thought myself very much like Steinbeck's George.
The feeling- it was like I had the potential to betray someone. Something. Everyone. It was as if for those two seconds, to get what I want, I would give up my sense of ethics (and subsequently, well-being), to be what I had to be. To throw morality down the proverbial trash-disposal with its sister indulgences. To be the King on the Mountain of societal Darwinism.
Then, it hit me. Who cares how I felt. Its how I acted and thought upon that feeling that really matters. And at least I can acknowledge my feelings out loud, which is more than some people can say.
And then my mind started up in a whirlwind; and you came into my brain.
I was so pissed at myself for thinking of you. At some point, last week, I had managed to forget you in that way. But there you were- clear as day in my brain, after I had thought you were gone for good.
It was then that I couldn't help but ponder, once again, if I had done the right thing throughout this entire situation. Would karma and God reward me for my deep-thought actions, I asked myself? Will everyone turn out for the better because of my actions? Will she, you, and I be happy in the end?
To tell the truth, its really hard for me not having closure about things. I make it a point to maintain peace and harmony in my social spheres, and the fact that I'm no where near knowing the answer to how things will turn out frightens me.
I suppose this is a test placed before me to test the integrity of my patience and courage.
If you read this, you should stop reading right now. It will hurt you to know that I am feeling tremendous amount of pain about you. And not just the physical kind, but the kind that tears your soul in two and makes you want to vanish into your bedspread. I hope my self-doubt is atonement enough for the wrongs I have done to you.
If you'd talk with me, I'd tell you about how I've died once already. And I would tell you that I am sorry that I ever had the audacity to hurt you and myself. But that old self- she died, in case you weren't aware. I suppose that wouldn't make much sense to you, though. But it does to me, but only because I'm the one experiencing it.
I want you to know I've seen too much death (my own included) this year, and I'm ready to live again. As much as I might deny it, I let myself die last November. And although I'm allowing you to affect me now, I am vivified to experience the type of hurt that regenerates the soul.
Oh yes-you would be proud of me. Guess what I did? I called my father last night. He lives in Wisconsin now. Did you know that my mother died too, many times because of him, and she still can't answer me when I ask her how she genuinely feels about him now? She loves him for his passion, but hates him for his indifference. It's all so contradictory to me.
I've thought it through and I keep getting caught up in the semantics of it all. The purest beauty is, by classical definition, simple. And love is beautiful. But love certainly isn't simple. As a matter of fact, as I write this, I can't help but wonder if love is irony in itself; if, in fact, any of us who attempt to define what we feel as love actually know what we're talking about.
Did you know that there's a nerve in the arm that runs posterior to the humerus and behind the media epicondyle? It comes from the lower part of the brachial plexus and, when hit, emits a slight pain and tingling all at once. Approximately two-hours post-hit, a contusion appears when blood vessels under the area of impact are damaged. Trapped blood from the vessels then congeal near the skin's surface, causing the tissues underneath the contusion to appear blue, black, or purple in color.
Did you know that the bruises gradually disappear over a number of days without your needing to do anything? Just remember that however ugly and painful they are at the time, bruises will all disappear in a few days or a week.
The nerve is called the funnybone, even though there's nothing funny about it, but I call it something like love.
