For many years, I lived an average life of safety and security. I got good grades, didn't get into trouble, and never broke a bone. I lived a boring story. I knew this; I just didn't know how to fix it.
Not until I left home for college did I find a deeper narrative into which I could immerse myself. I began to travel and slowly started coming alive.
At first, the trips were small — weekend jaunts with friends and such. Then they evolved into entire summers, road-tripping across the country to work at a summer.
Eventually, my wanderlust led me out of the country on a study abroad program in Spain, which was where I started grasping what it meant to live a truly great story.
On the streets of Seville, I met a homeless man named Micah. As a kid who grew up in a farm town, I never spent much time around homelessness, so meeting someone who lived on the streets was uncomfortable.
I didn't have a neat and tidy compartment in which to place such an experience. So I did what most people would do: I walked away.
I ignored the man, at first pretending I didn't see him and then downright dismissing him. My friends and I had plans for the evening; we were going to check out the city's nightlife. We didn't have time for vagrants. We told Micah we'd come back later (we were lying).
"Will you be here tomorrow?" my friend asked.
Micah shook his head: "I could be here, there, I could be anywhere — I could be DEAD tomorrow."
The statement shocked me, but I wasn't affected enough to actually do anything. So I walked away. As I did, Micah started screaming at us, begging for help. My pace quickened, and Micah's shouts got quieter in my ears, all the while growing louder in my mind.
YOU ARE READING
Finding me
No FicciónEach night, I got to hear a different story from my dad. He told me about the time he saw a UFO or when Santa Claus broke into his bedroom to give him a candy cane. I became the audience of a mastery storyteller, enthralled with the unusual and inte...
