My college self would be horrified at the goal I have decided to set for myself: to write about an Asian American experience through fiction. She would call her future self a failure instead of looking past it that it shouldn't matter she had a name that was constantly spelled wrong. She would be disgusted -- like the time she relented to write a Chinese retelling of the New Year's monster that her professor ate up because it was new, original, and practically “foreign” to them. You are destroying thousand year old stories just for an A.
At the same time she'd also be horrified that her future self would wear less black and more pink lacy dresses.
I'm older now, which is terrifying. The desire to connect to an Asian identity has been repressed so long and tearing, clawing itself to be let out. It's guilt. Guilt from choosing Saturday Morning cartoons than learning Cantonese. Guilt from being afraid to go to the non-English parts of Chinatown. Guilt that I may be losing what little Asian identity I have. More American than Asian.
Ultimately I'm like everyone else - I want to relate to another's experiences. I want to know there is someone else in the world feels and experiences what I do.
Fresh off the Boat premieres tonight. And the anticipation I felt for this was similar to that elementary school girl who clung to a neighbor's VHS of Flower Drum Song – only relenting to let it go the very day they were moving. Or the 6th grader who found a crumbling copy of Jade Snow Wong's Fifth Chinese Daughter and found the character's experience similar to her own. That she was not alone. Someone else felt the same back-breaking familial pressure to succeed and was one of the failures who could not live up to expectations.
I read the book. I even read the New York Magazine. Even if this is a flop it is the something that Asian Americans want to others to know: that I'm not exaggerating the harsh discipline, the odd cultural nuances, and the deep desire to simply belong ingrained into every man, woman, and child. This is where I come from.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Witching Hour
It's 2:46AM according to your cellphone, and you wake up from a short fevered dream again. It's been a third night in a row. This room has always been so well-insulated that it was the warmest in the house. Perhaps that's why you unconsciously picked it as your room when you first moved in. And yet things feel different. The clean, contemporary floral wallpaper banner is still on the walls. Even the Japanese Bridge print you scoured the Met gift shop just to find it because it epitomized your love of Monet. The American Girl doll still in its box just as you left it.
And yet here you are wide awake, watching an episode of the other Ghostbusters because it''s the only other thing airing other than infomercials -- which even at this hour does not make any sense.
You had naively hoped that things would be preserved, just as they were. Perhaps a tad more dusty and in desperate need of a vaccuum. You knew this was coming, you've just been in denial. In this wee hours of twilight, it finally hits you. You thought when you hurriedly packed for New York City they would be retrieved later in time. The things you didn't would be thrown out would simply just go away. Instead time passed until someone thought you weren't coming back for them.
Things have been moved and slightly replaced with something different, but you are unsure as the furniture is still just as white as before. There are books in the bookshelf in the corner but a lot of them are missing; ironically you found them in a box in the living room the other day. You pray that collection of stuffed animals have traveled to the Land of Misfit Toys beause at least they would have a home. Strangely all your ugly socks are still matched and in the drawer.
You are more awake now and not going back to sleep anytime soon. You need to rid the echoes of the perpetual nightmare you are having but its hard when you are thinking where things were ten years ago.
This no longer your home. Your home is in New York City where you can go where you want, when you want. Where things are familiar and you know exactly where there are and supposedly should be.
Here you feel trapped and bored and scared to leave the room. Or rather it's so warm than everywhere else feels so cold. At some point your insomnia has spurred an epiphany: perhaps this was a metaphor for the real world. That you had a choice: you have to outside in order to eat or do nothing and be warm and happy in your makeshift womb. The revelation causes some part to die inside.
However there are remnants of a person living here that you've become incredibly bored to the point of napping away your trip. You are a ghost haunting your own room. You were in such a rush to leave that without realizing the consequences of being left behind. And here you are finding childhood things rearranged or simply gone; it might be too late for you to settle things before heading towards the light.
Yet as you search for a stuffed goat that your husband gave you in college, you realize not everything was rescued. And as strange as it may seem, you kind of still want that ratty old bear you used to sleep with.
Staying here for the week after a long hiatus still proves fruitless. Before you left you were determined to find the things that were still of importance. However you been away too long and the house has become too foreign and you've forgotten even where the spoons are. The basement, though, is still dark, damp and terrifying. Which means it is probably down there.
Here you are frantically rescuing everything bit by bit like that dream everyone has once in awhile. Like that dream, the building is burning and you are still packing but there is always one last thing.
Then one more last thing.
And then another.
And another.
Until you realized it should have gone down with you inside it a long time ago.
Is this what growing up feels like?
And yet here you are wide awake, watching an episode of the other Ghostbusters because it''s the only other thing airing other than infomercials -- which even at this hour does not make any sense.
You had naively hoped that things would be preserved, just as they were. Perhaps a tad more dusty and in desperate need of a vaccuum. You knew this was coming, you've just been in denial. In this wee hours of twilight, it finally hits you. You thought when you hurriedly packed for New York City they would be retrieved later in time. The things you didn't would be thrown out would simply just go away. Instead time passed until someone thought you weren't coming back for them.
Things have been moved and slightly replaced with something different, but you are unsure as the furniture is still just as white as before. There are books in the bookshelf in the corner but a lot of them are missing; ironically you found them in a box in the living room the other day. You pray that collection of stuffed animals have traveled to the Land of Misfit Toys beause at least they would have a home. Strangely all your ugly socks are still matched and in the drawer.
You are more awake now and not going back to sleep anytime soon. You need to rid the echoes of the perpetual nightmare you are having but its hard when you are thinking where things were ten years ago.
This no longer your home. Your home is in New York City where you can go where you want, when you want. Where things are familiar and you know exactly where there are and supposedly should be.
Here you feel trapped and bored and scared to leave the room. Or rather it's so warm than everywhere else feels so cold. At some point your insomnia has spurred an epiphany: perhaps this was a metaphor for the real world. That you had a choice: you have to outside in order to eat or do nothing and be warm and happy in your makeshift womb. The revelation causes some part to die inside.
However there are remnants of a person living here that you've become incredibly bored to the point of napping away your trip. You are a ghost haunting your own room. You were in such a rush to leave that without realizing the consequences of being left behind. And here you are finding childhood things rearranged or simply gone; it might be too late for you to settle things before heading towards the light.
Yet as you search for a stuffed goat that your husband gave you in college, you realize not everything was rescued. And as strange as it may seem, you kind of still want that ratty old bear you used to sleep with.
Staying here for the week after a long hiatus still proves fruitless. Before you left you were determined to find the things that were still of importance. However you been away too long and the house has become too foreign and you've forgotten even where the spoons are. The basement, though, is still dark, damp and terrifying. Which means it is probably down there.
Here you are frantically rescuing everything bit by bit like that dream everyone has once in awhile. Like that dream, the building is burning and you are still packing but there is always one last thing.
Then one more last thing.
And then another.
And another.
Until you realized it should have gone down with you inside it a long time ago.
Is this what growing up feels like?
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Pop Quiz
It was at dinner with friends. Or was it Christmas at the in-laws when your husband introduced you to the neighbors? You just remember that you were literally against a wall, trying to avoid that conversation starter until you were ready. But then a flurry of people came in and you just had to be introduced; it would be bad etiquette if you didn't. Which is probably why it happened. Your fight or flight reaction kicked in, and you always fly. Your mind sprinted to the nearest door that had the answer. You're breathing normally, so at least you are not having a panic attack just yet. However you feel your eyes widen as you see the oncoming question.
"What do you do?"
I'm a writer.
"What do you write?
Oh short stories for now. A novel eventually.
It was the Freudian slip you weren't ready to tell people just yet. You had hoped by the time people would inquiry about your new position there would be something to show for it. However those were people who knew that you took the leap. Or the fall as you often refer to it because it's only a matter of time before you hit the bottom. Right now you are just floating. These are people you've never met. Before it was simple you could have an answer that people had a vague idea what you did. But you don't do that now. Now your hole is dug, so prepare to get comfortable.
People always seem to catch you at the one moment when you were doing nothing. Perhaps that why you work so hard at everything you do. Then again you had to say something. You are too old to be the shy person hiding behind the tallest person next to you. Besides, it never worked when you were young anyways because your mother would never let you.
And if you keep telling enough people perhaps it will eventually come true, right?
Now it just sounds too much like a white lie.
Empty. Hollow. Just a bit fake. A word with no substance that was simply left hanging in mid-sentence. You don't like that feeling. It's as simple as that. You are not one of those people who say something and not mean it. It's a flaw that you have. After years and years you've finally accepted it. Just like how you cannot feign niceties no matter how hard you try. So it's hard enough to tell people you are a writer who has only just begun to write.
What do you have to show for it? Nothing. Just notes here and there. To show them a notebook of potential ideas would be like handing in a thesis with at least ten possible conclusions. Nothing you can hypothetically present to them and say "This is what I've written."
You never would but at least you have evidence.
Which means you must write something. A phrase. A sentence. A paragraph. A page. This is the unexpected push you need to write. If you keep up this life that you must keep writing until it is true. You must take those whimisical, witty thoughts that come to you throughout the hours of the days and string them together into something singular and coherent. In other words you need to give yourself purpose. Suddenly it occurs to you that you really have been caught doing nothing.
You've been biding your time until a vision comes to you and hands you your book without any effort. Waiting until you tire of the freedom of being able to do whatever is your whim, and say to yourself "this is enough, I'm ready to go back." But you don't want to go back to that rigid schedule of mundane tasks. This is the first time in a long while where you have to make yourself productive. Up until this point you've been doing nothing but busy work. Isn't it about time that you create something that you can show and tell?
With each person you tell you must prove them them and yourself that you do what you say you are. And you can't do that without writing. Not just writing, but organizing those creative thoughts into directional roads that you can finally walk on. It's a reason they call it the road less traveled. You can't sneak by that inevitable question because it will always come up.
Always.
And you will always have to give the same answer, unless want to give up this dream. Since you don't, you should probably practice at least saying it. Eventually your voice will strengthen each time someone inquires about your occupation. Your throat will not stutter nor will your voice have that meek and mousy tone. No more awkward pauses hoping they will forget what they just asked.
It will be assertive and confident. One day you will even mean it.
Now say it with me (it really is on the tip of your tongue):
You are a writer.
"What do you do?"
I'm a writer.
"What do you write?
Oh short stories for now. A novel eventually.
It was the Freudian slip you weren't ready to tell people just yet. You had hoped by the time people would inquiry about your new position there would be something to show for it. However those were people who knew that you took the leap. Or the fall as you often refer to it because it's only a matter of time before you hit the bottom. Right now you are just floating. These are people you've never met. Before it was simple you could have an answer that people had a vague idea what you did. But you don't do that now. Now your hole is dug, so prepare to get comfortable.
People always seem to catch you at the one moment when you were doing nothing. Perhaps that why you work so hard at everything you do. Then again you had to say something. You are too old to be the shy person hiding behind the tallest person next to you. Besides, it never worked when you were young anyways because your mother would never let you.
And if you keep telling enough people perhaps it will eventually come true, right?
Now it just sounds too much like a white lie.
Empty. Hollow. Just a bit fake. A word with no substance that was simply left hanging in mid-sentence. You don't like that feeling. It's as simple as that. You are not one of those people who say something and not mean it. It's a flaw that you have. After years and years you've finally accepted it. Just like how you cannot feign niceties no matter how hard you try. So it's hard enough to tell people you are a writer who has only just begun to write.
What do you have to show for it? Nothing. Just notes here and there. To show them a notebook of potential ideas would be like handing in a thesis with at least ten possible conclusions. Nothing you can hypothetically present to them and say "This is what I've written."
You never would but at least you have evidence.
Which means you must write something. A phrase. A sentence. A paragraph. A page. This is the unexpected push you need to write. If you keep up this life that you must keep writing until it is true. You must take those whimisical, witty thoughts that come to you throughout the hours of the days and string them together into something singular and coherent. In other words you need to give yourself purpose. Suddenly it occurs to you that you really have been caught doing nothing.
You've been biding your time until a vision comes to you and hands you your book without any effort. Waiting until you tire of the freedom of being able to do whatever is your whim, and say to yourself "this is enough, I'm ready to go back." But you don't want to go back to that rigid schedule of mundane tasks. This is the first time in a long while where you have to make yourself productive. Up until this point you've been doing nothing but busy work. Isn't it about time that you create something that you can show and tell?
With each person you tell you must prove them them and yourself that you do what you say you are. And you can't do that without writing. Not just writing, but organizing those creative thoughts into directional roads that you can finally walk on. It's a reason they call it the road less traveled. You can't sneak by that inevitable question because it will always come up.
Always.
And you will always have to give the same answer, unless want to give up this dream. Since you don't, you should probably practice at least saying it. Eventually your voice will strengthen each time someone inquires about your occupation. Your throat will not stutter nor will your voice have that meek and mousy tone. No more awkward pauses hoping they will forget what they just asked.
It will be assertive and confident. One day you will even mean it.
Now say it with me (it really is on the tip of your tongue):
You are a writer.
Friday, January 4, 2013
This is Not the Life You are Looking For
It's strange when you've realized you've grown up a bit. That the current path you're taking is not one you would encourage on anyone. Despite people asking you how they can do it too. Instead you discourage them as much as possible because it's hard and lonely. Your discouragement slowly resembles the same negative passion your husband exudes when discussing the best method to vegetarianism.
To others a path of a writer is fantastical and free. You are breaking away from being just a cog in a wheel that turns from 9 to 5. You are living the dream. You are taking the leap. But this is not a life for others no matter how bad they want it. Unless you are able to support yourself to live, whether by means through a significant other or family, by all means follow those dreams. If you are able to support yourself and not worry earning the next paycheck, by all means follow them. But it is your own opinion that you feel that unless all other life priorities are taking care of, does one finally have the permission of persuing dreams.
But who's dream is it? Don't those other people realize how hard it is to occupy yourself when it was formally replaced with daily tasks that would eventually improve said company and profit. Now you have to decide yourself how to be productive. But this does not mean you should sleep late and do nothing.
Right now it is definitely not a dream to you. Yes, you don't have to worry about paying rent or food. However you've sat at the computer with a blank page for days. Writing is an old friend you haven't caught up with in years, and meeting up again is awkward. You have no words, and what words you have to say to do not carry beyond a page. What happened to the days when you use to write for hours and days?
You are the bird with the broken wing. And relearning how to fly is hard. But you do it because you have to and its been in a sling for too long. You've forgotten what it was like to experience life for the sake of the experience; to say you've done this or that. In college you promised to live your life this way because that was how you got a good story.
“Write what you know.” Isn't that what they said?
But you've graduated and you've forgotten that promise, so it was only natural to help someone else's path than your own. You wanted to reconnect but the sight of paycheck was just as pleasing. You could afford Anna Sui and Betsey Johnson now. Having someone else give you a to-do list is so much easier. The only real task was to figure out the most efficient method to accomplish them. Then on a Tuesday while sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum waiting to go to the Alexander McQueen exhibit, a thought stuck out in your mind.
Wouldn't it be nice to write about this?
You wondered why you never just sat down and enjoyed the air, observed the people walking to their mysterious destinations. You always had to be on the move -- even when you ate by yourself. You could never relax or sit down for a breath. You weren't a tourist. Tourists enjoyed the city without the concern of being somewhere more important. That's why they stand in the middle of the street to photography their family. They do not know better.
New Yorkers take it for granted. Perhaps that's why they live here; to being around the myriad of metropolitan opportunities without taking advantage of them. They exist within walking distance and available to them at anytime; they just choose not to. Ironically you are also a New Yorker, but now you have to time to experience it. And while you've forgotten how to write, you miss it. You are unsure of what the end of the means of writing is quite yet. All you know is to keep writing and hope something comes out of it. This takes time.
Time which you need to reconnect with the world on a different level. You need to remember what it meant to be the observer and watcher. Before you were too concerned about the next workday when the previous has yet to end. You realize you must aimlessly take a walk. You need to go outside because you know you are unproductive when your only company are the refridgerator hums and a blank white page.
Right now you can't write because you feel you have nothing to write about.
Without writing you must experience something everyday in hopes that you will write about it later. Without experiencing life you cannot write about it later.
To others a path of a writer is fantastical and free. You are breaking away from being just a cog in a wheel that turns from 9 to 5. You are living the dream. You are taking the leap. But this is not a life for others no matter how bad they want it. Unless you are able to support yourself to live, whether by means through a significant other or family, by all means follow those dreams. If you are able to support yourself and not worry earning the next paycheck, by all means follow them. But it is your own opinion that you feel that unless all other life priorities are taking care of, does one finally have the permission of persuing dreams.
But who's dream is it? Don't those other people realize how hard it is to occupy yourself when it was formally replaced with daily tasks that would eventually improve said company and profit. Now you have to decide yourself how to be productive. But this does not mean you should sleep late and do nothing.
Right now it is definitely not a dream to you. Yes, you don't have to worry about paying rent or food. However you've sat at the computer with a blank page for days. Writing is an old friend you haven't caught up with in years, and meeting up again is awkward. You have no words, and what words you have to say to do not carry beyond a page. What happened to the days when you use to write for hours and days?
You are the bird with the broken wing. And relearning how to fly is hard. But you do it because you have to and its been in a sling for too long. You've forgotten what it was like to experience life for the sake of the experience; to say you've done this or that. In college you promised to live your life this way because that was how you got a good story.
“Write what you know.” Isn't that what they said?
But you've graduated and you've forgotten that promise, so it was only natural to help someone else's path than your own. You wanted to reconnect but the sight of paycheck was just as pleasing. You could afford Anna Sui and Betsey Johnson now. Having someone else give you a to-do list is so much easier. The only real task was to figure out the most efficient method to accomplish them. Then on a Tuesday while sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum waiting to go to the Alexander McQueen exhibit, a thought stuck out in your mind.
Wouldn't it be nice to write about this?
You wondered why you never just sat down and enjoyed the air, observed the people walking to their mysterious destinations. You always had to be on the move -- even when you ate by yourself. You could never relax or sit down for a breath. You weren't a tourist. Tourists enjoyed the city without the concern of being somewhere more important. That's why they stand in the middle of the street to photography their family. They do not know better.
New Yorkers take it for granted. Perhaps that's why they live here; to being around the myriad of metropolitan opportunities without taking advantage of them. They exist within walking distance and available to them at anytime; they just choose not to. Ironically you are also a New Yorker, but now you have to time to experience it. And while you've forgotten how to write, you miss it. You are unsure of what the end of the means of writing is quite yet. All you know is to keep writing and hope something comes out of it. This takes time.
Time which you need to reconnect with the world on a different level. You need to remember what it meant to be the observer and watcher. Before you were too concerned about the next workday when the previous has yet to end. You realize you must aimlessly take a walk. You need to go outside because you know you are unproductive when your only company are the refridgerator hums and a blank white page.
Right now you can't write because you feel you have nothing to write about.
Without writing you must experience something everyday in hopes that you will write about it later. Without experiencing life you cannot write about it later.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Procrastination Won't Reach Your Destination
It's weird that when someone says they're following their dreams, the initial response has been "You've taking the plunge."
Making the very thought of pursuing dreams absolutely terrifying. Plunge into what? Black? Nothingness? Darkness? A deep hole that you can't hear the bottom even though you tossed a rock? The Niagara Falls? However plunging down Niagara Falls in only a barrel is probably pretty terrifying.
Which makes pursuing dreams seem very wrong because everyone is scared for you. You've abandoned the norm of earning stable income that ensures a invisible safety net to something in the future you haven't experienced yet because it is the future. You're an adult now, whatever that means. Go out in the world, find a job and earn money to support yourself into retirement. Dreams are for children. Unless that dream somehow profits, then it's okay.
And when you've said you are going to be a writer, it seems very, very wrong. Anyone can write. You can get almost any job by writing. You had a good job that pays enough. You had a job. Do you know hard it is to get a job? Do you remember how hard it was to get that job?
So what do you do now?
You could stay in bed all day staring at the cracks in the ceiling.
You could sleep until your head is groggy from too much sleep; the only cure is more sleep.
You could make a giant breakfast and leave the dishes dirty until dinner.
You could finally play all the video games that you've been meaning to get to.
You could watch all the bad movies on Netflix. All of them.
You could update your Facebook status constantly.
You could stare at Facebook until someone else updates their status.
You could eat all junk food that exists in the apartment (i.e. leftover Halloween candy).
You could take a long bath even though you float, making the point of a bath useless.
You could stay up all night without worrying about work the next day.
You could be a lazy, useless person who has decided to not be part of working society.
You could do absolutely nothing.
But that's not what you set out to do. You've created the opportunity to make your own work, your own schedule, and your own career.
Which also makes it very surreal, even after a week. Less a bottomless hole more like Alice in the rabbit hole down (or up) to Wonderland - falling deeper and deeper where rules become more like guidelines.
You can do nothing; you can do everything.
So you make the effort of some structure. Set your alarm for 7:30AM (8:30AM on the weekends) and allow yourself one ten-minute snooze. Make a simple breakfast, preferably one that requires only one pan. Turn on the radio instead of Netflix to avoid visual distraction. Open OpenOffice and let words come to you.
And you can't leave the chair until you do.
Exception: when you realize you're feet are becoming numb from sitting on them because it gives you the right height to type. At this point you should probably move around.
Making the very thought of pursuing dreams absolutely terrifying. Plunge into what? Black? Nothingness? Darkness? A deep hole that you can't hear the bottom even though you tossed a rock? The Niagara Falls? However plunging down Niagara Falls in only a barrel is probably pretty terrifying.
Which makes pursuing dreams seem very wrong because everyone is scared for you. You've abandoned the norm of earning stable income that ensures a invisible safety net to something in the future you haven't experienced yet because it is the future. You're an adult now, whatever that means. Go out in the world, find a job and earn money to support yourself into retirement. Dreams are for children. Unless that dream somehow profits, then it's okay.
And when you've said you are going to be a writer, it seems very, very wrong. Anyone can write. You can get almost any job by writing. You had a good job that pays enough. You had a job. Do you know hard it is to get a job? Do you remember how hard it was to get that job?
So what do you do now?
You could stay in bed all day staring at the cracks in the ceiling.
You could sleep until your head is groggy from too much sleep; the only cure is more sleep.
You could make a giant breakfast and leave the dishes dirty until dinner.
You could finally play all the video games that you've been meaning to get to.
You could watch all the bad movies on Netflix. All of them.
You could update your Facebook status constantly.
You could stare at Facebook until someone else updates their status.
You could eat all junk food that exists in the apartment (i.e. leftover Halloween candy).
You could take a long bath even though you float, making the point of a bath useless.
You could stay up all night without worrying about work the next day.
You could be a lazy, useless person who has decided to not be part of working society.
You could do absolutely nothing.
But that's not what you set out to do. You've created the opportunity to make your own work, your own schedule, and your own career.
Which also makes it very surreal, even after a week. Less a bottomless hole more like Alice in the rabbit hole down (or up) to Wonderland - falling deeper and deeper where rules become more like guidelines.
You can do nothing; you can do everything.
So you make the effort of some structure. Set your alarm for 7:30AM (8:30AM on the weekends) and allow yourself one ten-minute snooze. Make a simple breakfast, preferably one that requires only one pan. Turn on the radio instead of Netflix to avoid visual distraction. Open OpenOffice and let words come to you.
And you can't leave the chair until you do.
Exception: when you realize you're feet are becoming numb from sitting on them because it gives you the right height to type. At this point you should probably move around.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Tell-Tale Heart
We cry sometimes because the world beats you down with moments of hopelessness. When you've been rejected your junior year of prom. When you realize you can't get good grades in everything. When you realize your photography skills are not professional enough. When you realize you've abandon your dreams for a "job."
We've forgotten the person we were suppose to be.
Majority of our parents teach us to follow simple formula: get good grades, go to college, find a career or job that will make you money. The factor of happiness only seems to be a bonus.
And it's unfortunate that only a small percentage achieve a career that makes money and makes you genuinely happy. Not the monetary happiness of purchasing items because you can afford it but the happiness of fulfillment. The happiness of doing something you are proud to have accomplished.
It's also depressing to realize you are one of those that buried your dreams under the floorboards until you forget. However, it won't let you forget - constantly beating like a heart to remind you it's still there.
Until it realizes that studying the pattern of woodgrain is driving it insane. It misses the light. It misses the feeling of trying. It misses being a part of you. So starts beating at a faster, more fearful pace; eventually driving you insane.
Why can't it to just go wherever dreams go to die?
Instead you can only cry because it seems like the only response. Leaving you at your most vulnerable and most clairvoyant.
It won't go away until you take action and rip the floorboards apart to find out there's nothing there.
The noise came from your own beating heart; beating frantically at the thought of "what if?"
What if I stay where I am, chugging along like a train on a route remains the same day in, day out? What if I'm not good enough? What if I find something else and I still won't be happy? What if I don't even try? What if I just give up?
Staring at the black nothingness of the floor you confess to yourself:
Only you can make a decision, so what will it be?
We've forgotten the person we were suppose to be.
Majority of our parents teach us to follow simple formula: get good grades, go to college, find a career or job that will make you money. The factor of happiness only seems to be a bonus.
And it's unfortunate that only a small percentage achieve a career that makes money and makes you genuinely happy. Not the monetary happiness of purchasing items because you can afford it but the happiness of fulfillment. The happiness of doing something you are proud to have accomplished.
It's also depressing to realize you are one of those that buried your dreams under the floorboards until you forget. However, it won't let you forget - constantly beating like a heart to remind you it's still there.
Until it realizes that studying the pattern of woodgrain is driving it insane. It misses the light. It misses the feeling of trying. It misses being a part of you. So starts beating at a faster, more fearful pace; eventually driving you insane.
Why can't it to just go wherever dreams go to die?
Instead you can only cry because it seems like the only response. Leaving you at your most vulnerable and most clairvoyant.
It won't go away until you take action and rip the floorboards apart to find out there's nothing there.
The noise came from your own beating heart; beating frantically at the thought of "what if?"
What if I stay where I am, chugging along like a train on a route remains the same day in, day out? What if I'm not good enough? What if I find something else and I still won't be happy? What if I don't even try? What if I just give up?
Staring at the black nothingness of the floor you confess to yourself:
Only you can make a decision, so what will it be?
Thursday, September 27, 2012
The City of Forgotten Dreams
The daylight-strength lights of Times Square, the cacophony of screeching subway tracks, and the neverending crowds of tourists overflowing the sidewalks and onto streets. It's a magical place that feels like no other. You can't begin to describe it to the person on the other end of the phone. All you can tell them is that "I'm here and safe."
You are Icarus who wants to know how far your wings can take you.
Until you are shoved by a person who has only 15 minutes left of lunchtime and still hasn't found the right food to sustain him until 6PM. You've been swept into the sea of people like a strong uncaring current. You develop this need to "go", but unsure as to why. All you know is that you need to follow the direction of the "business casually" dressed crowd.
Years go by and everything becomes mundane and routine. Your tourist ambitions become a New Yorker's happy hour joke. You’ve suddenly forgotten your dreams and why you came to the city in the first place. You've grown accustomed to the gum-stained sidewalks, wear headphones to avoid the screeching of incoming trains, and developed the unimportant frustrations of a New Yorker.
Beating rush hour is now your only ambition.
Until one day you walk out the door without sunglasses and have to look up at the sun to gauge the daylight. You hope you won't ruin your practically blind eyes. Today the clouds are slow like a snail, unlike the other day when they were rolling like an incoming tide.
Which seems curious as you thought they were simply there. Now you can't help but continue to look up. You realize something is missing and it's not your building card.
Blissful emotion that you once had is replaced by claustrophobia. The city suddenly becomes more than just skyscrapers and horizon streets and people needing to "go." But now you're dreams feel so very far. Or just lost. When you looked up you saw how small you were in comparisons to the buildings that are swallowing you up.
Those dreams of yours have drifted away and its too far to swim back.
Daedelus was right.
Hands trying to hold on cover the white ceiling of a subway car. That feeling of longing is gone when the electronic conductor announces your stop. You have push your way out before the doors close and goes on its way. You beat yourself up for leaving the apartment too late.
As you walk out of the station into the light, you look up again at the sky. You notice the clouds moved a centimeter but only because you blinked. You feel sad but unsure why.
Welcome to New York.
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