That Strange Feeling by Victoria Castillo (16, Mexico)

​Sometimes you will have these moments where you forget all the constructs we have built as humans, whether that is language, technology, or social customs, when we realize that everything we’ve invented—the lives we are living—come as a consequence of trying to distract ourselves from the fact that we are strange beings, standing on a strange sphere in the middle of the blackness. We are an enigma, a mystery, something to not be trusted.

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When you live in the mundane world, it is easy for everything to become mundane. It is quite easy to lose yourself into becoming a mundane person, drained of vibrancy and spice, of intrigue and mystique. As plain as a brick in a wall, as insipid as a mound of dirt in the ground. Many people have lost themselves by believing this is what they are, thus they become it. They believe they are not magical, they believe they are too scared of achieving their greatest height, so their potential atrophies and they become unremarkable, common. It is also true that many people, unfortunately, are born common. They have no spark. No energy to them, no quality that makes goosebumps crawl up your arms when you meet them.

But some places and some people, some beings still have that spark to them that reminds us of that strange chaos we try to desperately distract ourselves from, and when we look at them, it is as if we are staring at extraterrestrials. We see the universe in their eyes. We feel an indescribable form of electricity at their touch. They are wild, and ancient, and enchanted, no matter how hard they try to distract us with their modern clothes and vernacular speech and pretend-simplicity. The closest word for this feeling is eerie. If you are swimming in a lake with someone like this, you can see it clearly. They may appear normal at first, but when you sink your head into the water, come back to the surface, open your eyes and stare into theirs, they do not seem human. But rather, they seem ghostly.

And when they leave, the feeling they give you disappears with the force of mundane life. Like a slap to the jaw.

I wish that I could experience this feeling more, to fully immerse myself in it until that’s all I know. But I don’t live in a strange place or interact with strange people, and I lean towards the mundane. After the feeling fades, I return to my learned behaviors, and it is almost like I have a mask glued onto my skin that shouldn’t belong to me. A mask of rules and blandness and routine, one that everyone wears in order to deal with this chaotic, confusing world. I try to rip the mask off my face, but it only comes off during special moments, and I cannot control when it happens. It is usually unexpected.

But I experienced a tiny sliver of the feeling today on my way to school. As I walked through the sequoia trees, not only did I feel the strangeness—I felt fear. I couldn’t explain it, but I suddenly became on edge in a way I never am. It was the distinct feeling of being watched. I was expecting to spin around and see an ominous presence standing before me. Dark clouds unfurling in the sky like stains of black paint on a canvas. Or perhaps a tall figure with murky features, unknown and indescribable and certainly not human.

But I didn’t—because when the feeling consumes me, I become so fascinated to it, yet so repulsed by its strangeness that my only instinct is to run. A part of me wanted to stay, but it was so suppressed by the primal instinct to escape the situation as quickly as I could. It happens every single time, and I always regret it.

Maybe the feeling doesn’t exist. it’s an obsession with something that isn’t there, a desperate excuse to find a form of meaning in life. Or maybe it’s a bad thing to experience it, an omen. Something bad will happen. A malady will come upon you, like a vulture flying to perch itself on your shoulder. And it is only a matter of time before the clock stops ticking and you fall down.

The thing is, I cannot recognize if the feeling is dangerous or not. And that is why it terrifies me.

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Victoria Castillo is a 16-year-old writer from Mexico. She wrote a novel that hasn't been published--yet. Aside from writing, she enjoys storms on the beach, the Cheesecake Factory, and photography.