Prompt- What do the texts suggest about the ways in which individuals deal with the prospect of an uncertain future?

Theme statement- Being encountered by the prospect of an uncertain future, prompts an inclination within an individual to seek out guidance,in a place that fosters a sense of security and comfort, to combat the inevitable feelings of powerlessness that arise due to consernations about the future. (Photograph from Habitar de la Oscuridad and About My Father’s Plot to Get Home)  

There is no decoration. I inhale the soft smell of bleach and wilting flowers, as the devoid of color in the insipid walls begins to resemble my pale sickly skin. I watch the scarlet blood flow incessantly from my left arm, that took upon the pallor of a corpse, as the man dressed in white, ominously reads my most recent report. He frowns.  

A blur of negative thoughts and worrisome questions cross my mind, as the sick feeling embedded in my stomach begins to consume me. The estranged beating of my heart echos dramatically through my ears, and the pain ceases. I look up to soft brown eyes, with my own vacant piercing blue, swimming with fear, demanding an answer; no, not demanding, but rather begging. I feel like a powerless child, begging his mother for a cookie before dinner. He begins to tell me that the results are inconclusive and there is no solid explanation to my ailment, but the rest of his prepared speech is lost within the plethora of weak reassurement.  I sigh. 

My mind begins to swim with the endless possibilities, and I realize that I would rather be told the cold, harsh truth of my condition, rather than trapped on the teeter-totter of panic and unknowingness. But nonetheless, I flash the doctor a pearly white smile, and reach out my arm to grab my coat. I wince. 

 I exit the white room and make my way down a staggering set of grey stairs, while placing a firm hand on the railing. My head was pounding, and my vision blurry. Extending my arm, I feel the smooth wall, and I am instantly relieved by the guidance of the enduring wall. I am uncertain why, but my eyes began to well up with tears; attempting to extinguish the ashy furnace lit within me. Through the blurriness of the stream of crocodile tears, I watch as a blind old man, just in front of me, grudgingly, making his way down a long, straight hallway. Similar to me, he also relieves his burden through the support of the rigid wall, feeling his way forward to whatever may come. I found myself envious of this blind man, contrary to my previous pity- at least, he is certain of his affliction. I keep walking. 

As I walked to the taxi, a lazy drizzle of rain began to patter melodically on my dark umbrella. I laugh as I watch the ecstatic children run playfully through the shallow puddles, soaking from both directions. Although I am dry from the rain, I am drenched in the nostalgia and beauty of the droplets that fall so delicately onto the warm pavement. Closing my umbrella, I feel the cool rain drop onto my dry, pale skin. I smile. 

 With his rough and raspy voice, the taxi driver asks me for the address. For a moment, I stutter; I do not wish to go home, only to be accompanied by my loneliness and the uncertainty of fearful, damaging thoughts. But what choice do I have? Trying to cover up the quiver in my voice with a kind pretense, I lick my chapped lips and begin to gently explain the directions. It was not gentle. I found myself surprised at the hoarseness of my own voice, despite the whisper. I nod my head.

I am uncertain about what overcame me but I began to tell the driver to stop. Infuriated by his confusion, my calm collected speech transformed into an angry thunder of yelling. Once again, the tears burst forth, like a distressed child, rolling helplessly down my ashy face onto my fur coat. Through the window, I saw my reflection, or maybe all I saw was the rain rolling helplessly down the window, onto the ground. Overcome with my own conviction, I took out an old bill and handed it to the bewildered driver, who I almost felt sorry for. But I felt more sorry for myself, for my pitiful, powerless self. I feel sorry. 

I knew exactly where I wanted to go. I was certain about a place where I would feel safe from the ghosts of uncertainty and fear, that did not cease to pester me. In fact, I didn’t even realize when my gait became a jog, and eventually a full sprint. My face was covered in drops of rain, hot tears,  beads of sweat that lined my upper lip, and smudged mascara flakes that refused to dissolve. I still remembered the directions; not only remembered, but it was engraved permanently within my brain through the constant and endless regurgitation. I remember running down these streets hollering with unripe excitement, despite the continuous warnings of my mother about the rain. I remember watching my father fix the rain damage, and realizing that his sturdy well-defined muscles do not need a wall of support. I remember scraping my knee for the first time and watching the thick scarlet fluid ooze delicately out of my thin frame. I remember when my future was not clouded by the thick smoke of uncertainty, but rather doused with the mist of simplicity. I inhale a breath of serene pleasure and comfort. 

It looked the way it always had. Amidst all the changes, this old house refused to be torn or beaten down by the powerlessness of reality. It stood ever so strong, unlike me. Its permanent gleam was not dimmed, but rather devoted to shining through all unexpected storms (probably because of the constant mending of my father). Through all my wondrous reminiscing, I almost forgot the trepidation of my pending, undecided destiny. I step forward and embrace the warmth that radiates out of every brick. 

The loud doorbell was almost congruent to a nuisance for me, but today, hearing the cheerful melody radiate and echo through the old house, was the most relieving and alluring sound. I felt giddy with the glow of excitement, like the feeling you get after correctly answering a question you were uncertain about. As I heard approaching footsteps, ones that I could always hear from under my blanket, my nails began to dig into the soft palms of my hand. But I did not feel anything. 

The door swung open to reveal an old, weak man. My father took my arm and pulled me into a secure embrace, and no longer was he the old, weak man I saw seconds ago. Within his constantly strong embrace, I felt at peace. 

As I entered my childhood home, I realized how much I missed the vibrant decorations.