The Vanishing Nut

Night falls, and it is cold and quiet outside my window. Time stops as I slowly, methodically bring out my old, long-forgotten things. Again.

They are not really that old: a letter from a friend, different memorabilia, remembrances, souvenirs, old photographs… No, they are not old. They are as ancient as time itself. And no, I have not forgotten…

Was it only seven months ago when I walked down the stage to proclaim that I survived high school? When I held that piece of paper ever so tightly, and vowed not to cry? When I resolved not to be too emotional, and ended up weak and confused, with my face a transparent mask of the fervid turmoil of emotions inside me? Was it true? Did it really happen? Was it me?

It must’ve been me, I mutter angrily, reproaching myself again. I don’t remember any schizophrenic blood running in my family, but sometimes I just wonder where the other side of me comes from.

Bit by bit, piece by piece, I bring out the things which are a part of who I was, and of who I am. Here and there are traces of yesterday: an old photograph, the pin which my friends and I wore in freshman year, the first poem I ever tried to write, my test paper in sophomore algebra, a copy of my first published work, newspaper clippings, birthday cards, letters… I stop.

Just after graduation, my friend Lilo gave me a letter. Which was surprising in itself, since I knew that she wasn’t one of those writers who had a reasonable respect for deadlines. And besides, I hadn’t assigned her anything, much less given her a deadline. So I simply gawked when she pressed the letter into my palm, recording every feature and emotion on her unnaturally serious face which was there for me to see. And long after I had gotten over the shock of getting a letter from her, of actually getting an honest-to-goodness letter from her, I still couldn’t bring myself to open it. Perhaps because I knew what it would say. Perhaps because I thought she might be right. Perhaps because I was afraid that she would be.

I start to read.

“I vowed centuries ago that I’d write to old friends at least once before I leave but I kept putting it off, comfortable in the knowledge that you are just around the bend and it would be a long while before you make your disappearing acts. In truth, I kept putting it off because I didn’t want to think that the time for goodbye would ever come. But now it has arrived and I guess I have no choice…”

Lilo and I became friends in high school during our freshman year. The closest description I could give to describe how we were then is but one word: crazy. We were the weird ones in our class, always opting for the unique, always laughing at the corniest jokes, always loving the same thoughts on dancing, on friends, on food, on art, on music, on the importance of reputation, on justice, on life. We were virtual soulmates.

Lilo taught me how to laugh, and together we discovered the real meaning of the word fun.

But…

Things changed, time passed, and I grew older.

“…You know what? A lot of people admire you for what you are now, but not me. I’M NOT IMPRESSED. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m proud of what you have become, but somehow, in achieving these things, you had swamped a facet in your personality that I do admire- remember ‘Net-net the Nut?’ I met that girl four years ago when we were still full of dreams, ready to take risks and conquer high school, armed only with guts to accept the defeats. We have come a long way since, each choosing a different path. And looking back now, I have no regrets as to the route I have taken. And neither, I think, have you…”

Regrets?

Yes, I have achieved many things. I have gained many friends, and I have changed. I am happy and contented with what I have. I am satisfied in the knowledge that I have done my best. That I deserve what I have received. That I have done no one wrong. And no, I do not think I have any regrets. Or do I?

Doubts. Dreams. Illusions.

Is it worth giving up my old crazy self for? Is it worth experiencing all of the pain and fatigue I am going through? Is it worth it?

Oh, what to believe? But wait- have I really changed? Or is it still Me deep down inside?…

“People are surprised to find out that we get along famously, because from their point of view, we are the proverbial opposite poles: one is carefree and the other is serious. HA! If they only knew! As I always say, ‘Once a nut, ALWAYS A NUT.’ You have one good sense of humor, and I hope it stays with you until the time comes for me to read about you in the newspapers. Then I’ll tell my children that that girl is as crazy as I am. And that we once vowed to each other that we won’t let our near non-existent race die. I’d be extremely proud of you then but I’d be prouder still if I hear you laugh, for that means you didn’t allow our breed to dwindle and die…”

I wonder how many more nuts are left in this world? How many people still care for and nourish a childlike, carefree Me inside of them? A fragment of their personalities which craves for fun, for mischief, for the sweet days of youth? For freedom from the everyday hustle and bustle of life? For freedom from responsibilities and worries, even for just a while? For laughter, for cheer, for sheer abandon? For the child inside them?

“In this crazy world, one has to fight to survive, and what better way to fight than to fight laughing. This way you’ll always emerge victorious. And when you do, think of me…”

Things have changed, time has passed, and I have grown older.

With age came the burden of responsibilities, things that weren’t mine to take care of before but now were completely left in my hands. And as I matured, as I learned, as I hardened, and as I transformed into the butterfly that I was somehow meant to be, I forgot the crazy Me that I was before. I thought that she had gone. I thought that she was nothing but a part of yesterday, my yesterday.

But no, she was there. She was always there, deep inside- waiting, hoping, yearning for the day when I would let her come out again. Longing for the moment when I would set her free…

Once more, I look at the letter in my hand.

I close my eyes. And I wipe off the tears.

{Written in 1988 at age 17}