Of Vulnerability

Of Vulnerability

A Glimpse Into the Outside World

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. He had left now, and walked outside through the large front door that she kept barred shut with a massive bookshelf of literature she had collected in lifetimes.

She wondered if he could be the one she could actually trust, someone whom she could let into her life and create memories with. She closed her eyes for a moments, trying to remember why she had left this one window unbarred and uncovered, out of the nearly hundreds in her large expansive home she had found some way of covering, closing herself off to the outside world, as each day of this life progressed.

had chosen to continually come back to this exact life, this home, this setting, as if she had locked herself into a level of some universal game of personal growth, of which she had to make certain conscious choices to free herself from it—rules and choices she couldn't remember once she embodied herself in this form.

S​he looked down from the small window who's positioning favored a deep placid section of the winding mountain stream, in the valley her home sat. A long shadow, seemed to stop twenty paces short of the waters edge, where a foot or more of snow still lingered from the nights storm. Beyond this shadow, the stream was illuminated and bathed in warm yellow sunlight streaming from a skyline she hadn't seen for years. The snow seemed to be melting, and the mountain grass poked through, seemingly reaching for the warmth of the sunlight while still trapped in a cold snowy blanket.

S​he had a faint memory, of a lifetime, where she was actually outside, in that spot, talking with others, laughing with friends, eating, and dancing with someone she loved with flowers in her hair in the spring. It felt more like a memory within a dream. She looked away from the window and down to the small bed in this room she had let him sleep in. She smiled a smug smile to herself, knowing a tall burly man of his size, must have struggled to sleep comfortably in such a small bed as this, one made for a small child.

noticed a pieces of parchment left on the night stand, written in perfect hand. knew his writing because she didn't have any parchment like this in her entire home, nor had she given him a pen or an ink bottle. The candle wax drippings on the parchment were a light purple in color—the color of her own candles she made painstakingly, by hand, in her dark basement. She had given him two of them the night before, when she had pointed him on his way to the room she now stood in.

She had some far distant memory of this handsome, strong, soft-spoken man, in what seemed like, prior lifetimes. had sent him up the winding stairway, to the room at the top of the stairs at the end of the hall, to sleep in, without so much as giving him time to more than introduce himself, and thank her for letting him in, out of the cold snow flurry.

T​ top of the page had a sort of quote that read:

“Oh what loneliness this world can leave. To whom or to what can I cleave.
Deep within I find a need that others cannot fill nor perceive.
To whom I turn, and to where I go when anguish of the soul wracks my body so?”

"H​ow true is this?" She thought to herself with a smile. "If you had someone to love you with their whole soul, perhaps your loneliness would vaporize like the snow does under the warmth of the sunlight." She said this more to herself, then actually to the writer of the quote, or the man who had left the parchment the words were penned on. She then sat down on the cold hard little bed, which had enough room between it, and the wall with the window looking outside to the last snow of winter and the first warm spring sunshine, for her feet to fit comfortably in the tight space. placed the parchment squarely in front of her, so the light from the window shown directly on it, and began reading.

H​er eyes , fell upon sentence, underlined, standing out from the rest.

... world I walk, is a realm, filled with an ancient maze of walls, as high as cliffs, built over centuries, by the iced hearts, of those who have been continuously hurt, and no longer let anyone in...

She paused, looked out the window for a moment, as if trying to remember something about her own life, but wasn't sure what she was trying to remember... she continued reading, skimming sections of the full text.

...’ve fallen asleep, a time, shivering on a bed of snow, dreaming, of how it would be—to, with someone special, together, tear down our massive centuries old walls of hurt, pain, confusion, and lower density ego-self-destructing programming, and use those meticulously stones, as a foundation, for—not a new home—but a new world. One that we could build together, where no walls exist, the open expanse of a beautiful wildness yet to be explored...

S​he paused, looked out the window, a deep chord struck within her soul. She had come up to this little room, she had graciously allowed this man to sleep in, after he had had stepped outside, saying he would chop some wood, bring it in, and wash up in the stream before breakfast. She was curious, the condition he had left the room in. Her impression of men was grossly undignified, dressed, ugly, fat figures, who left messes in every room they passed through. In her opinion, men couldn't hold a decent conversation, or even put together a coherent thought, during a meal where they gorged themselves endlessly without manners. Men disgusted her, as she saw them, , as constantly desiring physical and sexual gratification, giving no thought to a woman's thoughts, needs, and desires. In her loneliness, she had given of her body, heart, and home, to such men in other lifetimes, who left her feeling more worthless than desired. She long since, began closing herself off, to the world around her, giving up all hope that someone could still be out there, to be to her, and with her, what she longed for in a man.

Could this man be different? She paused and looked out the window. She could hear the distant and distinct whack of an ax, splitting wood on a stump, to add to the pile next to her grand hearth in her massive living room fireplace, and, to the pile next to the cooking stove in the kitchen, and, perhaps, to the smaller, cozier fire place in the den, and perhaps, even the one, in her large, comfortable, , empty bedroom. Her heart jumped at the thought. She stood up and peered out the window, to see if she could see him chopping. She could not, and so, as she sat back down, she let her mind wander, imagining him, shirtless in the snow, long ax handle between his leather gloved hands, sweat dripping from his brow, and his long wavy brown hair bobbing and bouncing with every swing.

S​he decided perhaps, he was, different, if in her imagination, and so she proceeded to read the whole, of what she soon discovered, was a journal of sorts, left by this seemingly, different and intriguing man.

Damn. Here I am again. In the middle of a snowstorm, about to knock on a small door in the middle of nowhere, lost in a wilderness of emotions, cold and alone—again. God this feels like . Haven’t I been here before? I’m more lost than I realized—or perhaps I’m right where I need to be. God it’s cold out here. I should’ve stayed where I was at and never ventured out, looking for more than what life handed me. Complainer! Shut your damn mind up. This is what you want out of life—more. The thrill of chasing a dream. You can’t achieve, what not willing to take a step out of your own comfort zone for. Huh, let’s see, what will I say?

Oh I know... promise I won’t ask for much—at least not as much I asked for at the last home—which I didn’t think was much, anyways. All I need is something warm to drink, a small wooden stool to sit on, in front of a crackling fire to warm myself, where a pot of some hearty stew, sits warming on a small hearth. I promise I won’t bother you for more than a small bowl of that delicious smelling warm delicacy—I promise. It doesn’t take much to keep me sustained for one more day. Promise I won’t stay, I’m passing through. Perhaps a blanket over my shoulders while I sit, if you have one to spare, its been so bitter cold out here. Don’t worry you don’t have to interact with me, I won’t talk to you if you don’t want me to. I don’t need much, and I’m more than willing to work it off, and give you three-fold of what time and effort it costs you.

I won’t tell you, that you ought to be more vulnerable to other people in the world, like, I’m being here. Do you realize how hard , to raise my hand to knock? What am I having this conversation for? And with whom? I'm in my own head! I’m sure they don’t care about how times, I’ve been turned away, and if they do the same, it won’t hurt that much. ’ve kinda gotten used to it—rejection and all—you know, that’s not the greatest statement in the world, when you see it from the perspective, of how, that reflects on the character of humanity in general…… who cares anyways. , if everyone could be more open with each other, and let others into their lives and hearts—the world would sure look different. Damn! Slow your thought roll, stand up, and knock instead of writing your thoughts on this parchment, by the light of a lamp-post, outside of a home in the middle of nowhere!

Should I even though? I’m so tired of being out here, in this cold and world, trying to find a friend and soulmate. It’s hard to see the light of a sunrise anymore, or reminisce in a beautiful sunset, or relax my eyes on a picturesque landscape, when the views are up, by the high walls of peoples shrouded hearts.

She, paused for a moment, looked out the window at the beautiful landscape, deeply examining her own heart. She felt a tug, as if, some small thread of truth in these words, sought to free something she was unaware of in her own heart. heard a bird, faint and distant, singing a long forgotten song, between the thudded whacks of an ax far below. The next paragraph, gave deeper meaning to the , as she turned her face from the window to parchment.

Humph, if I told that to anyone, they would get instantly defensive and tell me I’m wrong. Wrong? Are you kidding me? Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I can see right through you, and your masked facade. How do I know? Is that what you asked? I do it myself. I’ve done it myself. Heck, I’m still doing it to myself. Damn...

Well, here goes nothing! I’ll raise my hand to knock, perhaps, this door’s the one.

A​t this point in the set of parchments, there was a large ink splotch, and some smudging of the ink, that seemed as though the writing had stopped for a time. The two pages that contained this slurry of words, had a distinct bend to them, as if, they had been rolled up and stuffed into a bag, then later, pulled out, to be by candle light in the small room. The second set of pages had no ink blotches, and the pages were flat, set side by side, as if left to allow the ink to dry. She picked them up, stacked them on top of one another, and continued reading.

I’m sorry, what did you say? You’d like to know a little more about me here? Gee, no has ever asked. , well, I was an adventurer, now I’m a timid door knocker, I guess. I used to take on the challenge of scaling every wall I came upon. I can still scale them—no problem. It’s , well, I’ve grown tired of all the repeated climbs— so walls to scale— to be back down, to the hard, cold ground, by the heart piercing arrows, of the people hiding far below, safe in their shadow. , I’d like to re-find that side of myself, I am not sure anymore, if I’m willing to pay the cost for showing it. And, well I guess, I’ve kind of, lost hope in that, others, will actually see worth, in that hidden side of me. No one knows, and no one cares. Out of sight, out of mind, don’t try to change my mind. be what I have an impression, of who you ought to be, and I might accept you, for who actually not, and, enough fulfillment in your life, to keep you in a state of slow painful starvation, so not too much trouble for me. Damn people. Why?

S​he paused, looked up, out the window, stunned. She thought back to the cold night prior. She had not even asked his name. He had been polite, thanked her profusely for allowing him in, on such a cold blustery night, and, had asked if he could shake the snow off of himself, in front of the door, before warming himself by the fire. She had agreed. She hadn't even asked if he wanted food, she had assumed he did, and brought him a bowl of stew and some bread, and left him standing in front of the fire alone to eat in silence as she went off to start a pot of coffee. now felt slightly guilty for not even speaking to him. continued reading.

, here I am again, like a fool it seems, hoping, behind this door, will be the other person in this world, ready to be vulnerable like I am—ready to let someone into their heart and home. I’ve fallen asleep, a time, shivering on a bed of snow, dreaming, of how it would be—to, with someone special, together, tear down our massive centuries old walls of hurt, pain, confusion, and lower density-ego self-destructing programming, and use those meticulously stones as a foundation, for—not a new home—but a new world. One that we could build together, where no walls exist, the open expanse of a beautiful wildness yet to be explored. , yes, I suppose I am a dreamer. Sometimes, I dream, while shivering out in this cold, that in a new and better world, I might have someone to sit next to when the frigid evening winds pick up. Someone to cuddle with, under a blanket, with our toes sticking out to feel the warmth of a crackling fire, a feet from us. Someone to talk to when I’m old, to chat, and reminisce with, on the days of our youth, remembering what life was like before we met. Thinking back upon the road we traveled, the lessons we learned, and how through it, we kept pressing , struggling to find our way. And then, looking back, through the difficult journey life brought us through, to the beautiful that we have now—that , worth the pain, sorrow and the rigors of the journey. I dream that someday, someone, will be willing to give to me, a little love, and, receive my love. I feel as though, I have a lot of love to give. might not yet know how to give it fully, but I can learn—heck, they might not know, how to give their love fully either. guess that’s what continual heart wounding does for you…makes you real good at chiseling stones, to wall-in, the most vulnerable parts of yourself. But damn it! I’m ready to take a hammer to these stones one by one. To those stones that don’t suit me, I’ll grind them into a fine powder ready to be into mortar and concrete. For the ones that invaluable lessons were out of and into, I will make a good foundation to my imagined new world. I know, there must be someone, out there willing to be vulnerable with me—like I’m willing to be with them, and let me behind their wall. If not, I suppose till I find them, I’ll keep wandering through this maze looking for a friend, dragging my own wall behind me— in case I need to hide under its protective shadow— once more.

T​here was no more written on the parchment. She looked up, the chopping had stopped, She had heard the front door open and close times and the sound of wood being stacked in the rooms below, as she read the last section of the parchment, over, and over again. There weren't , bits and pieces that stood out to her—the whole section stood out—almost as if, she had written it herself. Or perhaps it had been , to her—for her. Her heart throbbed with emotion. She became more, and more overwhelmed with every wrong decision and misjudgment she had made, not in this life, but past lives, that now flooded her memory. Each time she read the text, more and more clarity came to her, almost as if the text was triggering her mind, and beginning to cleanse her , psychologically, and emotionally. She felt a growing, sudden urge, to unearth every window and door in her home and open them, to allow the cool, outside air to flow in, and with it the sounds of nature, humanity, and life that she had cut herself off from over eons of time. Could this be the life she had always dreamed of...that is... with this man in particular?

S​he gazed out of the window, and saw the man she had let in out of the cold, the night before, walking directly toward the stream, in her direct line of sight, with his back to the window. He was taking his sweaty shirt off, taking off his belt, and unbuttoning his trousers. Her heart pounded, as she saw, not his physical beauty, but the beauty of his soul. She watched him strip naked, and slip into the icy stream to rid himself of what masculine odors, she now wanted a small of in her nostrils. As she watched, she held the parchments close to her heart, and a silent tear slipped down her cheek.

S​he could rush down the flight of stairs, out the great front door, and run barefooted across the icy meadow to the exact spot she could see through this window. She could pull off her dress and toss it onto a limb, and with breasts bared, unashamed, join him naked in the frigid water. The thought crossed her mind.

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room—the window, that led into his soul. She saw a glimpse, perhaps of something she had memory of, in a dream, something, that could change her present reality.

J. Miller