Chosen

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Letting Go

"Holding onto things that vanished into the air, left me in pieces, but now I'm rising from the ashes." David Cook: The Time Of My Life.

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The idea of presentism has caused controversy for centuries. The belief states that only what happens in the present is reality. The thought of that the past and future does not truly exist is enough to give most people a headache. The past is only a memory, a figment of history that has ceased to be real today. To any living human, what occurred hundreds of years before our lifetime or just yesterday becomes a little idea in our minds, but ceases to exist as it is concluded. What was real is not real in the present. The future is one huge guess that is technically not existent. The future is what we dream of and plan for, but it is only a notion of our minds. One may sit and daydream about being president just as one may think about tomorrow, does that make it legitimate? No, we are left to imagine those ideas the same way a young child may imagine they are a princess or an astronaut.

What do I believe concerning presentism? I think who cares? The past, the present, the future, they all are so intertwined it does not matter what we label it. The past shapes the present. Because of what we accomplished or did not accomplish yesterday influences where we stand today. Then that continues; what we learn or do today decides what will happen tomorrow. It is all part of one's life to that we cannot put an exact name on it. Our job is to try to balance the past, the present, and the future for they are all one in the same.

Tony Stark, my father, landing in my backyard in Oakley two years ago was the catalyst in an explosive chain reaction. It would be senseless of me to say that has not affected me on a day-to-day basis. I would never have even thought of becoming Iron Defender if I was not so rapidly shoved into the Battle of Berlin. In a period of a month I went from an ordinary teenage girl to waging in a war against aliens. I suddenly found myself in the bigger picture of the fate of the universe. I go from an innocent girl who the most violence I had seen was a bloodless high school fight to killing foreign creatures and losing my left leg. I was a college student who became a government secret agent in the blink of an eye. I was forced out of the lower story and directly into the upper. How could anyone argue that such occasions are not worthy of being called the currently reality?

I endured the turmoil of my best friend and boyfriend being kidnapped and presumed dead. I faced death with a brute of a woman ripping my back to where I laid in a pool of my own blood. I endured a painful first few steps into nearly becoming a terrorist group's ultimate weapon. I am thrown way outside of my comfort zone on a mission that leaves me without the security of my family for over a year. The two people who I loved the most were suddenly and pugnaciously torn permanently from my life. My mind was taken from me and controlled to attempt to injure those I care most about. I find myself in the perilous void of outer space to fight an unknown enemy. I do not believe those occurrences are unfit to call reality.

However, all of that is over. I am not naïve enough to deny this. The actual events have ceased to be current and we have proof of such. Memorials have been erected in honor of those who died in Berlin, Detroit, and Paris. Gravestones mark the burial grounds of friends and family who lost their lives. Scars serve as a reminder on those who were lucky enough to fight through the circumstances that they faced. Both the living and the dead serve as examples that such devastation had transpired but yet it is over. As hard as it is to accept this fact, we must move past such tragedies. Sometimes, that is the hardest part. Having to let go of what was and having to grasp the what is stands as one of the most painful transitions a person has to go through. But it must be done in order to move on and free ourselves.

Waves crash against the rocks under me. Seagulls cry as they fly close to the ocean. The salty pacific breeze meets my skin; the tips of my hair flutter behind me. The grey sky is sunless due to the layer of clouds packed together above. My fingers mindlessly trace over two decorated jars that rest in my lap. I subconsciously kick my heels back against the course rock from where I sit on the edge of the cliff. The early morning, late spring, California weather is warm enough where my light jacket and shorts keep me warm enough.