One Saturday in January of 2006 I met with my best friend Wes to solicit his candid, un-sugar-coated advice about my latest relationship. Perhaps what I truly sought was the approval and encouragement from a man whose opinion I respected. Wes and I have been close for 15 years, since I was 13, so he knows me quite well. In typically naïve schoolgirl fashion, I recounted to Wes every insignificant detail of my new relationship. You know, the "he said" and then "I said" details that generally no one beyond the folks involved cares about. Giddy, I elaborated with, "He is so perfect." Wes rolled his eyes and uttered the following statement, which will forever be remembered: "Don't you know your eyes adjust to the brightest light?" Through confusion, I asked for explanation. He continued: "When you turn off the light and find yourself blind in a dark room, only to find your eyes adjust minutes later and you're able to see? It's the reverse scenario." Essentially, he was warning me to beware of anything that burns unusually bright at the beginning, as the same fire generally burns out just as fast.
As you can assume, that brilliant light was merely a mirage — which consequently caused me a great deal of darkness later. As a result, I've grown apprehensive of falling victim to those "bright light" scenarios. Additionally, I find myself cynical of others who share their "bright light" stories. Does since equal sense? Or am I jaded, bitter?
Sometimes I miss the naiveté of believing that light will never dim; I miss that hopeful girl who was me. But I now remind myself of the inevitable "adjustment" before the light goes black. I don't know if I blame Wes or myself. Is it sensibility and caution, or self-induced sabotage and fear? It's as though I wear sunglasses before the sun even rises. In a dark room. With the shades pulled down.