La Corrida en Miranda, Part 1

The bull seemed to fly right out of hell. The mass of black fur shot out of hiding, rattling the wooden panels separating the audience from the arena. The crowds roared, riling up the dark force of nature. For an animal so large, it should not have been able to move so swiftly. I cheered on the beast, adding my voice to those of the masses. The air buzzed feverishly, adrenaline surely pumping through every body in the stands, and not just my own. My eyes, fixed on the bull, did not dare blink.

This was a whole new level of culture shock. People say that you can experience anything and everything by watching videos or reading a book. But then you go off into the world, and the floor gets pulled out from under you. Familiarity is left behind, and the world becomes entirely mesmerizing. The globe spins more rapidly on its axis, to the point of flinging itself out of orbit and into the next galaxy. This new level is altogether terrifying, raw, incredible. This was a corrida, a bullfight, right in the heart of Spain.

Around the arena the bull ran, dust flying up in it's wake. The arena itself was small, being the town square of a little pueblo named Miranda. People were seated on balconies and make-shift bleachers. Some people stood behind wooden barracks lining the edges of the arena. My host siblings and I sat on a wall, having climbed a rickety ladder to claim our spots. Behind us, a band played classic bullfighting-style music. Trumpets blasted in our ears. 

The people behind the wooden barracks held giant cups overflowing with beer. As the bull neared them, they stepped out from safety, alcohol sloshing out of their cups, egging on the bull. My heart stopped as the bull nearly impaled three men. They escaped out of reach from the deadly horns at the last second, only to return to the open when the bull lost interest. They waved around their own mini red capes.

"Those guys are completely insane!" I shouted over the chaos to my host sisters. Excitement and terror were near bursting in my chest.

Soon, the banderillos stepped out from the barracks, beginning their dance with the bull. 

"The banderillos are helping the matador learn how the bull moves. They tire out the bull, too," said the younger of my host sisters. They held out their pink capes. I took note that their names appeared to be printed on the inside, stamped in black. The beast grew timid at first sight of the banderillos, but soon returned with its initial fury.

After some time came two men mounted on armored horses, with spears in hand. "Those guys are called picadores. They make the first stab," informed my host sister.

The bull charged at the steadfast horse, and the picador thrust his spear into the top of the bulls neck. Out of the fresh wound spurted bright red blood. My body went cold, arms rough with goosebumps. I'd nearly forgotten how this would end. The banderillos moved to the edges, and the picadores left the arena. Now came the matador.

The matador stood in the center of the arena, completely macho in his composure. I could relate to what his mind must have been like, in that one moment in the beginnings of the fight. He was a performer, just like me. He was thinking clearly, but letting the performance instincts take over. It's like thinking without thinking. I could see it in his dark brown eyes.

Why Enthusiasm is Vital to Success

Most of us will have these streaks of what we deem success that are followed by periods of doom and gloom. For a month, you could be acing all of your courses in school, or making incredible headway in your novel. Everything is going your way, and life is perfectly balanced. Light is left in your footprints and the path ahead is simply electrifying (in a good way). But then, of course, it seems that you lose the favor of Fortuna, leaving you to crawl off into Gollum's cave. One thing falls through, creating a despicable domino effect, and causing you to throw your hands up in the air. You. Are. So. Done. With everything. Run.

What's nice about this terrible week or two is that it comes to an end. However, until you manage to pull yourself out of it, it feels like you're drowning in neglected responsibilities. Literally, reality almost seems like too much to handle. This tends to lead to marathons on Netflix, which aren't even fun when there is an ever-growing list of to-dos on your mind. Just thinking about what must be done is painstaking. The former vigor with which you might have been writing a story, or studying, or anything really, just goes poof. All desire to accomplish much of anything is no where to be found. It's like a writer's block, but impacting every single aspect of your life.

How do you escape? Sometimes, after enough wallowing in the mess that is your life currently, the darkness just ebbs away. But more often than not, it's a matter of finding that one thing that gives you purpose. Taking a day off from all responsibilities is incredibly rejuvenating, but this does not mean sitting in your basement all day doing nothing. It's a day to enjoy some of the finer things in life. Whether it be taking a walk or brewing some fresh coffee beans, doing these small things without having to think of anything else de-clutters the mind. Having the mind clear allows you to think of the things most important to you and then--click. The most impressive thing humans have to show is hope, and this hope leads to happiness, which brings about a renewed enthusiasm for whatever life has in store. Then you are unstoppable once again.

From my experience and the experiences of others, I've learned that enthusiasm is key to success. It is vital that when one is struck by an idea, in order to carry that idea out into the world, they must pursue it with a passion. That is why some wise words to live by (from none other than Doctor Who) are these:

"I am and always will be the optimist, the hoper of far-flung hopes, and the dreamer of improbable dreams."