Story of a Minute
Have you ever thought about something so often, built up so much onto something, had something so deeply ingrained inside you, that you forget it hasn’t even happened yet? Have you ever…been so sure of something, so convinced it’s coming, so, so, so anticipative, that you couldn’t even begin to imagine it not happening? You picture it happening while you’re standing idly under the shower; you perfectly chisel out each and every nuanced reaction that dares to creep onto your face when it happens while you’re standing in a queue; you paint perfect images of everyone else’s reactions when you regale its happening while you’re tapping your pencil on the desk, zoning out on the very important lecture about the very important test that, unlike your happy fantasy, is most definitely going to happen.
You’d think the moment that everything you’ve pinned your hopes and dreams on comes crashing down would be like the grand crescendo that ends an orchestral performance at some opulent theatre, like the monumental sweep of the curtains as the spotlights wink out, plunging the audience into pitch darkness.
I remember this one time in kindergarten, during playtime. The teachers brought out plastic boxes, unlocked their childproof clasps (small parts can be hazardous if swallowed by children), and poured out the wooden building blocks that were the unlimited, untapped, vast canvas to the paintbrush that was the mind of any young child.
I used to build very peculiar houses out of those building blocks back then. I tried to build the biggest and tallest houses, except the entire structure was precariously built atop one single upright wooden cylinder, like a see saw. I guess I wanted to see how elaborate I could build the house before it overbalanced on one side and fell over. The girl next to me momentarily looked away from her project – a car, complete with wheels made out of the same wooden cylinders – to examine my demented Addams family-esque building.
“That’s weird,” she said, scrunching up her nose.
I shrugged. I thought it was ingenious, an entire house balanced on a single wooden cylinder!…until a boy kicked out said cylinder from the bottom and my wonderful structure was reduced to a crumbled pile of scattered wooden blocks.
It’s kind of like that. You take out the single piece at the bottom and suddenly everything falls apart.
You’d think that when everything you’ve built your future upon for years comes crashing down, when the only path you’ve ever imagined for yourself suddenly get blocked off, that it would be meaningful or maybe you’d learn something that you never thought possible, an amazing epiphany, maybe, or maybe you realize you didn’t need this at all and the only reason you realized that was because you didn’t get it so maybe, really, it’s a good thing it didn’t happen and you get to go on living this enlightened life that you couldn’t have otherwise known and you’d go out with a bang and fireworks and not like a candle flickering out, just like that.
Are you sure? No
“Dear Student, we regret to inform you that your application has been rejected….”
Just like that.