1-9-9-8
The existence of humans is like that of a safe.
Man, woman, and child seal away that which makes them themselves.
The painful moments of childhood,
the lost of a loved one,
the destruction of a treasured toy,
the ever dwindling of innocence and youth.
The dial turns right.
"Click," it sounds.
One.
We prolong our tough exterior,
but to our dismay we become worn around the edges.
The rust takes over.
Our color has withered.
Our strength becomes compromised.
Once does the dial pass.
At its second coming does it stop.
"Click," it sounds.
Nine.
Be they Delicate memories,
Precious memories,
any memory considered to make us vulnerable,
it will be locked away.
But in doing so, we too lock our true selves.
Repititions are Patterns.
"Click," it sounds.
Nine.
But try as we may,
nothing can be contained...
constrained...
concealed...
hidden...
protected...
forever.
The dial turns again.
This time, though, immediately finding its destination.
"Click," ot sounds.
Eight.
All pins click into place.
Everything has aligned.
The conditions have been met.
The latch is then pulled upon.
At that very moment, everything comes flooding out...
Ourselves.
The "us" we wished for no one to see.
Vulnerable are we at that moment,
but then we look around us.
We have all been exposed, yet something is common among us:
"What we feared had made us vulnerable was considered the same for another."
Never had we been alone.
The entire time we had each other, and
long after we will have each other.
We are the children of 1998.
We will let ourselves be seen for who we are.
We will not have it any other way.
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MiguelAMorales
I do not consider myself a writer, though the people that know me do. I am not opposed to the idea either. I do, however, consider myself an "English enthusiast." I am in love with English and I decided to take part in a community of fellow lovers of English.
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