Suicide

"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.  All the rest – whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories – comes afterwards."

I like to tell myself that I've resolved this question for myself, but who knows if it will all just crumble in my sobbing face.

Stage IV

Hair like snow. Further treatment cancelled.

Matisse

Not my writing - my sister's.



when i came home two weeks ago
i saw you for the first time in two months

but it felt like i hadn't seen you in decades

you still recognized me, struggling out of my mother's grasp
to jump into my lap
and lick my face
but i knew something was different.

you, who used to race around the house like a white lightning ball of fur
lazed the days next to the glass sliding door
as the sunlight kissed your paling wet nose and stroked your fur

(i could never look at you for too long under the sun
the brilliance of white would have made me
blind)

you, who used to tumble up and down the stairs chasing my mother's footsteps
would whine at the foot of the stairs
waiting for somebody to carry you up

you, who never tired of energy during our neighborhood walks
would sit in the middle of the sidewalk, refusing to budge
until i picked you up and carried you home

i write of love so often
mainly of the romantic unrequited sort
but i think is the first time
i've cried while writing a post

you always knew when i was crying
you'd find me, wherever i was
and lick the tears off my face
as if you could absorb my pain

is it wrong for me to be crying like this
when i realized today that
you won't be there to lick my tears
the day that i cry for you

X+Y=Z

"Life sucks, but the world is beautiful."

I read my vignettes from freshman English today.

I'm slightly disgusted, but still, I'm relieved that I wasn't too clueless in 9th grade. Funny how I was already writing about a lot of the same things back then - friends, being unique, honesty, whatever. I am pretentious and preachy now; I was pretentious and preachy then. Oh well.

I also looked at my first Holland essay - the whole thing about making my bed and valuing the process. And now, looking at how it eventually turned into a college essay...it's a good thing Holland had destroyed that essay.

I still wonder about that story, though. Come April, I'll find out whether S bought it. If they do, then great. [Edit: I guess they did.]

But I don't. I still don't.

Sure, I can say whatever I want about the process, and learning to look between the endpoints. But it doesn't change the fact that whatever I experience now, isn't even worth its weight in cow dung once I turn into food for the worms.

Maybe the point is that there isn't a point.

We search for it all our lives, so my mother says. In middle school, some people already start thinking about it, and in high school, most everyone does (I'm of the opinion that at some point in their life, every teenager has dealt with an existentialist crisis, no matter how clueless they may seem). 

On the cliff's edge, we're still thinking.

It's a fragile thing we have. But the fact that we will never know for sure is what makes it worth it.

Leon loves to bake because he likes knowing that if he follows a recipe, he'll always get what he wanted. It's a constant in a world of variables, and a comforting notion when most of the time, nothing ever goes that simply. I fully understand Leon's thought process; I see the appeal. Start with X, do Y, get Z. Always.

X + Y = Z

It's so simple. So tangible. So understandable.

But I wouldn't want my life to be like that. I don't want to know what my purpose is. I don't want to know what the end product photo looks like, with its perfectly goldened crusts and 5 star reviews. I don't.

I'll always know what my X is; that much I know. And there are plenty of Y's out there for me to try.

But I have only equation and one chance - one life.

I'll never be able to find Z.

And that's the point.

The whole point is that there isn't a point. That's what makes it beautiful.

The search - thanksgiving

I had already witnessed two ambulances speeding by on our trip to Saratoga, and on the way home, a team of fire trucks. Nonetheless, I didn’t give much thought to it, as it is pretty common to see ambulances blaring by an intersection.

In any case, my parents simply stopped the car each time and waited for the ambulance or the team of fire trucks to plow through the intersection. My mother casually asked, “Where is the sound coming from?”, and seconds later, when the ambulance siren disappeared into the distance, we carried on with our normal lives.

Two weeks ago, a family friend got involved in a car accident on the 880 freeway. He had been driving at the speed limit, and had only diverted his attention for a few seconds when he rammed into the car in front of him. The air bags popped up and the front part of the Lexus was ultimately destroyed. Fortunately, he is lucky to have survived the accident without sustaining major injuries.

But recently, one of my sister’s friends was not as fortunate. On a clear night in Riverside, Elena Marie Cadet passed away in a car accident, just five days before Thanksgiving. Elena was only 18, and in her freshman year at UC Riverside.

Some of us may have simply eaten our Thanksgiving dinner this year without sincerely considering our blessings first. And usually, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m one of those people. But this year, the recent string of events really forced me to wonder: What if someone I love is next? What if I’m next?

We have all heard the siren of an ambulance approaching an intersection. And every time, we always ask the same question: “Where is it coming from?” If we have to get out of the way, then so be it. As the ambulance exits the realm of our sight, the cars start back up again, and we continue on to our destination. Everything goes back to normal, as if it had never been interrupted. “Where is it coming from?” and nothing more is said.

But have you noticed that we never ask “Where is it going?”

Every time an ambulance drives by with its horn blaring, it is a sign that someone out there needs help. How can we be so sure that an ambulance we see on the street isn’t driving towards someone we love who desperately needs help?

You never know. One day, it may very well be speeding towards you.

Now, I am aware that I’m not the only person who hasn’t given much thought to the motives behind every ambulance. Many of us don’t.

However, as the accidents began inching closer to people I knew personally, I’ve realized why I never considered the darker meaning of a speeding ambulance. The true reason that we act so casually to these occurrences is because we think that these kinds of accidents always happen to “someone else.”

Unfortunately, we’re all someone else to someone else.

turtles

The morning of June 5, 2011, our turtle finally returned to us after seven months of exploring the world outside of the plastic tub he had sat in for much of the past eight years. When we found him, Leonardo was burrowed by the camellia plant, head and arms withdrawn, his shell gently covered with soft pink petals.

We were happy to see him, of course. But doubt crept in.

My mother put on a pair of gloves and poked him a little. He didn’t move. She picked him up. He didn’t squirm like he once did. I put him in one of the water-filled tubs I had left for him, in case he ever decided to come back. He floated.

Unsure of how to handle the current situation, my thoughts drifted back to two months ago when I had spotted Leonardo, then seven years old, crawling along the patio. Since the rest of my family was away, I had recorded a video of the brief reunion, concluding with Leonardo crawling back into the bushes. Instead of taking Leonardo back into captivity, I had let him go.

Now, he was dead.

My sister glared at me, cheeks flush with tears. Why didn’t you take him when you saw him in April? Leonardo would still be alive if you had.

In truth, I had momentarily extended my hand to grab Leonardo. But just as I was about to pick him up, a thought had flashed into my mind. What would I want if I were Leonardo?

I looked back at the sterile tub that had bound Leonardo – that sickly small space clamped between one cold, circular wall. And suddenly, I felt disgusted at how we had treated him. It was too cruel to lock Leonardo up in a box, even if it would keep him safe.

So I let him go. And now, I had to face the consequences.

My father passed the shovel to me, and after a pause, I drove it into the ground. As my arms trembled over the still shell, the shovel full of dirt, I looked around at my family. I tried to form the words, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t, because I didn’t mean it. For in making that decision on that April day, I had already decided that if it were my own life, that’s what I would have wanted: to be left alone, to be free.

As I set the foundations for my future in the years to come, I will have to make that decision again. I could listlessly pursue the formulaic lifestyles and career paths that my peers and parents define as “successful.” I could live life entirely focused on future financial security and stability, giving up my own interests and dreams when they don’t lead to steady paychecks. I could steer away from risks and exploration outside of my shell of comfort, and settle for safety and familiarity behind the high walls of security.

I could. But I won’t. Why should I set a ceiling while I still have the opportunity to fly?

The last bits of dirt slid off of the shovel, and the little grains of earth washed over the serenely silent shell. As I gradually lost sight of it under the soil, I realized that oddly enough, I was smiling.

Leonardo had left his shell behind. And at that moment, so did I.