We've all heard the jokes about humanity's oldest profession, but i beg to differ. I believe the oldest profession is that of the storyteller. As long as humanity has existed we have told each other stories. Storytelling is timeless. All art is storytelling. Telling stories is perhaps our only true form of communication. With all this talk of stories, have you ever considered the story of...stories themselves?

"Allow me to tell you the story of...stories. In stories, we start with a subject. And then, something goes wrong and creates tension! but in the end, it usually resolves. Or maybe...you're just left in suspen..."

I spent the first 7 years of my life growing up in Champaign, IL. In fact, some of my very earliest memories are of experiences not unlike the scene depicted in my submission. I know firsthand how terrifying forces of nature can be. 

Tornadoes are particularly haunting to me. They inspire fear on a multitude of complex emotional levels. On the surface, the primal urge for mere survival, accompanied by the sudden and stark awareness of one’s own mortality. Then, the fragility of our loved ones. When we’re young, this can be especially paradigm breaking, as we sometimes tend to see our parents in an idealized, invincible, quasi-superheroic light. The following existential dread, awe, and universal-insignificance that these realizations bring about. Next, the prospect of losing your every earthly possession, not to mention the place you call home. Nature holds no regard for the things we deem precious. Is the value we ascribe to these material things, itself, unnatural? And ultimately, the utter helplessness and bitter suspense of being left entirely in the hands of fate. 

Nothing short of a simultaneous bombardment by a variety-pack of fears. Not “unadulterated”. Absolutely adulterated. Stained, tainted, and filtered through the lens of the culmination of all our past experiences. The very same experiences that give the fear its meaning in the first place.

There’s something poetically unjust about a substance as ethereal as wind being capable of ripping steel and tossing trees. Tornados devastate not only the physical structures of humanity, but also the inner structures of our minds. In no way can the amalgamation of terrors I experienced as a child living through the ever-present threat of tornados be truly encapsulated in any reenactment, but I hope my entry will serve a crude enough approximation to effectively communicate the severity of the emotional impact these types of situations have. 

But its not all sickly-green skies, hail storms, and funnel clouds…

In those horrible moments, the most pure, beautiful, comforting sound in your whole world…maybe even your whole life…is that of your parent’s voice. Fear stricken though it may be, offering a beacon of hope, reassuring you. Promising, borderline manifesting that everything will be alright, regardless. 

In those times and the moments that follow, our willpower can be just as strong as a tornado: regardless.