(Photo Credit: James Appleton - nationalgeographic.com)
So far, I've avoided mushy, emotional, and insightful posts displaying vulnerability. But I love this photograph. And it has inspired a post of honesty and introductions into my heart and the intimacy of my life.
I was once described as a mixture of a volcano and a hurricane. I have been described as many things before, this one on a few occasions, and I happen to agree. Sometimes I am a mixture of those two natural disasters. A massive eruption, sometimes short-lived like a hurricane, and sometimes long, slow and just as damaging as a volcano. Although if you're familiar with volcanoes they can also be abrupt, cause massive destruction and leave devastated cities in it's wake. Of course, I've never obliterated cities, I'm not exactly Attila the Hun, but I do give fair warning that if I'm really triggered (and it doesn't take much to get me worked up), but I mean, if a fury ensues, just let me go and get out of the way. That is really the idea of a natural disaster. Take cover, head for the hills, go into a lock-down if ever one occurs within your proximity. But this photograph doesn't scream "DANGER" to me. It's a beautiful fire. A fire that draws you in. I always lean closer to my computer screen to try and get a better look. I would love to stand where the photographer stood. I wouldn't be running, not like I always imagined I would if I were to witness a "natural disaster". Of course, the Northern Lights really add to the magnificence of this image. In some ways, I identify more with this image then I would with a more violent eruption. I suppose that entirely depends on my mood. If I'm angry, then something much more angry would be the appropriate photograph but in general I think this one fits a little better. I'm not pretending I'm some sort of anomaly, a "natural beauty", but more identify as a reflection of personality, demeanour, and position in general.
It's a mixture of sympathy, empathy, compassion, love, passion, hatred, fury and anger all thrown together to create this picture. It mixes well, actually. The two extremes can coincide and exist as one, cooperatively, neither dominating the other. I can almost see the two sometimes fighting to overcome the other, one burning more brightly to show off it's power. When I look inward, I see this photo. I see all the rage, all the passionate hate and love fighting to co-exist, all the beauty, all the curiosity, all the compassion... all of it brewing, creating the person I am today. I am a passionate person. I generally don't feel with apathy, if I take a position, I take it strongly. Not to say that every little thing I take very seriously, I choose my battles. I choose what to love with greatness and hate with force. But it all flares up. I can be a bit extreme, although I have calmed down significantly since getting over hormone imbalances and growing up out of teenage-hood.
I witnessed the Northern Lights only about a month ago. I was standing in the country, in a snow-spotted field, in the middle of the night with a boy and we watched as the sky moved in colours of pink and green. At first it was subtle, so subtle that I almost missed it. It seemed sort of like a trail left behind from an airplane. Until the mist started to fade in and out and reappear in streaks downward towards the ground. Of course, the brain that is half tomboy started screaming "Alien plasma?" with a mild excitement, but logical, female side of me knew better than to speak that outloud. I was so excited I called my dad to tell him. It has always been a dream of mine to travel up North to see the lights. I even mentioned it to the boy I was standing with.
Similarly when I see the photo above I think of him. I imagine we're a mixture of the two great sights. Sometimes I am the lights and he the volcano and vise versa. Immediately I identify with the volcano and place him as the Northern Lights although that is not always true. However, I am more eruptive then he. He would be more like a dormant volcano, sleeping in wait for the perfect moment to explode. I am much more active. I spit and rumble frequently, only erupt with fury every-so-often but not every million years. More like hundreds. He is much more calm, like the sky. The lights flicker in and out, beautifully, gently, with the night. He is much more gentle than I. Much less excitable, much less invasive and much less loud than the quite extreme me. Of course, this does not mean he is complacent about everything in life. When worked up, though rare, he is just as passionate as I, and just as loud. He even arm flails on occasion, which is always entertaining. But I love his calm demeanour. His gentle, care-free, compassionate attitude. He is patient with my flares of emotion, no matter what it is, and manages to shrug me off when it's needed. If I were with someone like myself, we would kill each other. Our fits of rage, competitive tendencies, and struggle for dominance would ensue someone's death (I like to think it wouldn't be mine). And I am not the type who necessarily wants dominance in the relationship, it's more that it would be a struggle for me to relent to someone who is like me. The significant other needs to be able to calm me, be my reasonable, rationale half when I am in a frenzy. That I cannot find in someone who is just as easily blinded by passion as I am. Which is why he fits rather nicely.
His boyish charm is what got me first. He's tall, lanky - sinewy - and carries a goofy grin. His loud-speaker laughter echoes down the hall and his light outlook carries him. The shyness adds to the boyish charm. It's not reclusive, rather hesitant and a little wary of his surroundings before taking the first step forward. He approaches with an observant attitude rather than my loud, bold and in-your-face advance upon meeting new people. His lack of care towards outter appearances is more than admirable. His attire of baggy sweatpants, up until recently, burned and paint splattered, hole-y tee-shirts and broken zippers on hoodies doesn't bother him in the least, or myself. It's endearing, part of his boyish nature, despite his adult maturity that accompanies it. He's light and fun. Caring and resourceful. Intelligent and eager to learn. Always ready to help anyone who needs it. He brings a balance to my rather different personality, and meshes with my interests. It's been about six months, and to be honest I've lost track as it seems like just yesterday and forever all at the same time, and there is already a chemistry I cannot explain. This could turn out to be the perfect love story. A story I could write about, make women swoon over, and retell to my possibly future children. Or this could be a story of heartbreak, tears, anger, screaming and months of misery. Either way, it's something I'll be able to write about.
Oh, and his name is Adam.
