Alexander Kutza

drens’ lungs inside the sweltering building. Fanny and Julia didn’t stop until they had nearly reached the pier, where they turned back in awe at a tremendous picture of desolation. Through the ashes floating gently like snow was an effulgent array of reds and oranges that captivated the destitute children. Shreds of cotton were floating as well, dancing and swirling happily, free at last from their imprisoning ropes and hands and machines—not at all so different from the children themselves.

Nothing Happens

Personal Essay & Memoir

~blink~

Nothing really happened at all. I was in the car—so dark, so many lights—I blinked so much that maybe I couldn’t tell the inner lane became grass. I pulled out into traffic, as if the others would agree to let me go home and rest; I had spent my Saturday night volunteering, after all. And suddenly I was frozen in the middle of the highway, my mother’s frantic screams passing straight through me. Death was breathing down my neck, and my fingers were numb as I gripped the steering wheel and quickly got up to speed. And that was it. The only indication that the moment had happened was my mind’s whispered promise that it would punish me forever—punish me because my brain could have been everywhere but inside my skull, like the videos they show you in DriversEd that people told me I didn’t need to watch, because good grades mean I probably have everything figured out. How could I have treated my life like a bubbled Scantron answer on a chemistry test (specifically, redOx reactions)? Putting everything up to chance, when I still need to schedule so many things: gazing at the stars on Monday, playing board games on Wednesday, crying with my whole chest on Friday. When I haven’t traveled the countryside in a cozy mtrak, or felt the passionate lacerations of love’s syrupy entanglement. When I haven’t even applied to college.

~wordy email rejection~

Why can’t it just be simple: being good means good things happen to you? Why did a single email take away my love for life? Will I get it back? What lesson is it teaching me to fail at something I put my heart into? That I shouldn’t be empathetic, optimistic, passionate? Now, who is profiting off of my suffering? If I had succeeded, would I have paid my profits forward like I say, or would I have kept them for myself? I wanted to feel something, because I was sick of sitting in place, staring at a screen, trying to do my work while my invigoration was

fading. And suddenly there was nothing to work towards, no reason to put down my pen. I forced out my tears—why is it so hard to cry? I wanted to wallow for just a moment, because otherwise I’ll force myself to go on, changing nothing until my eye twitches and I slouch and fold under the weight of my backpack, zippers always bursting at the seams. That’s the burden I was sold. And yet I’ll go on tomorrow, scoffing at my angst, and forgetting the rashes on my skin. I’m sorry to myself. I’m sorry my health became an afterthought, and I put my future before my present. Because I truly thought things would get better in a week. And a week becomes a month, and a month becomes a year, and a year becomes…too much to let go of.

~hope~

I ponder ways to redefine my self-worth—to be more than statistics, and grandiose passions, and hard-earned accomplishments that somehow speak to my excellence. I strive to value myself for just existing, but I’m terrified of that. Instead I notice with relief as my motivation returns, gradually. I feel silly for thinking I could have received a different email. I wonder why I carried so much mistrust for my future self in those days, as if returning to normal would be just an illusion. If I’m wallowing forever, I might prevent myself from going on at all. It took a week to regain what the email stole from me in a moment. I wonder why hope clings to me always, fighting to drag me from despair and guide me forward. Reminding me of the bigger picture, the bigger goal, the bigger battle— reminding me that I’m wasting time. I wonder if hope could let me go.

~paradox~

I can’t work. I can’t relax. I convince myself sometimes that I’m finally where I want to be, but that’s only when my obligations dwindle. And when they surge the cycle starts again. Will it ever stop? Or is my life a paradox?

~tether~

What is the distance between me and the one who stands on the ledge? When I look back I see the tether wrapped around fragile laughs and hugs,

numbers and letters that fluctuate. Around things that don’t yet exist: trophies that mean something, change at my fingertips. Around nothing permanent. So I buy myself time, waiting for a day when I won’t have to clutch the harness, when I can let out a sigh and finally realize it’s not going anywhere.

~ping pong~

What is the difference between me and the one who lives a lie? Who fears the outcome of words so their throat has taught itself to close? Who’s stopped believing there’ll be a better time so they decided for good their freedom isn’t worth it? Is it my fault that I’m not prepared? For an end to the conjecture? For even a fleeting hint of disappointment in their wide eyes? For a definition I’d have to defend always? Maybe in the future, silence might stand for empowerment, instead of weakness. Too bad it’s so easy to forget dreams, because they might have spared me from the ping pong table. Where our paddles gathered dust, and it felt like we were magnets aimed the wrong way, and I lost so much of myself forcing them together.

~balance~

I used to try to balance the scales. The scales of science and writing and math. The scales of kindness and friendship and family (never together). The scales of health and relaxation and joy. But eventually there were so many that I couldn’t fill them all. So maybe I’ll try to select the important ones to fill—but how do I find the right combination? And is that, in itself, just another form of balancing?

~running~

And suddenly I run for the brink, my fingers pounding the pavement like a techno beat coursing through my veins as I think about the spinning stars and moments of fluttering beauty and awe and desperation that seem so foreign sometimes but ignite me with the passion of a thousand years, and I feel my heart like it wants to rip out and become one with everyone who’s ever cried or hurt or hid from anything, though it’s hard to remember those moments when you grow so used to putting dots at the