Throwing stones at the sky

"It's like you're playing the piano for ten years and you still can't play 'Chopsticks,' and the only thing you have to keep you going is the belief that one day you'll wake up and play like Rachmaninoff."

There you were -- a wide-eyed freshman with goals and dreams just like everyone else. Of course, some were genuine while others were externally imposed. But no matter. You were here now, and the world was yours for the taking.

You told yourself that this was your one shot at reinventing yourself to become someone else, and so you did. As the semester continued, you slowly realized that everybody had bought your new personality. But you never really bought it. No, too bad you didn't realize that until you met...well, him. 

You soon met your soon-to-be best friend "Mike" through a service group, and fell into a fever. You wouldn't dare admit to anyone that you had a crush on him since that would make you seem shallow and far too injudicious with your heart. So you allowed yourself to secretly fall for him. Whenever he needed someone to talk to, you enthusiastically obliged. Whenever he wanted to go out to eat, you made sure you were available. And so naturally, you would grow to reciprocate his requests.

But even though you both were asking the same questions on the surface, you knew that behind each invitation to dinner, you were always hoping for something more. And hope you did. You carefully tried to give more signs. He kept spending time with you. You started joking about being a couple someday. He kept doing nearly everything with you.

So one night, you couldn't help but ask -- is there something more between us?

He said no, not right now.

That is your story. And though you're too embarrassed to admit it, that's essentially the singular source of everything you ask me about.

And you keep asking because I'm not giving you the answer you want to hear.

That's why you keep saying that you're screwed and that nobody likes you. Of course, we both know that's a blatant lie. Sure, you make it sound as if you just want somebody to say that they like/love you so that you know you're not a total failure. But in truth, you don't want just somebody. You want him.

So you keep torturing yourself, beating yourself up over your inability to play something as simple as "Chopsticks" on the piano. Yet you still won't give up and pick up a different instrument. No, you've already set your mind on hammering out the same two blasted notes on the piano over and over until the steel strings snap.

All this so that you can continue to believe that somehow, someday, you'll wake up and suddenly be able to play like Rachmaninoff.

Call me a pessimist, but I don't think that day is coming.

All you're doing is throwing stones at the sky and expecting them to come back as diamonds.

Roses

This story ended up becoming a combination of past blog posts, so don't expect much.
(Edit, 2/10/15: In retrospect, it's really quite funny that the name I randomly chose happened to be Jen).
--------------------------

"Tell me a story."

About what?

"You."

I don't have any stories worth telling.

"Everybody has stories worth telling."

Whether anybody wants to listen to those stories is a different question.

"I'll listen."

Thanks.

"You never really told me what happened with you and Jen."

That's not an interesting story.

"Interesting or not, I know it's still on your mind after all these years."

That ship set sail long ago.

"Doesn't mean you don't remember it."

†††

I never really liked social events. It certainly showed.

"Hi, I'm Jen. What's your name?"

"I'm Ryan, I'm from San Jose, I'm going to study biology or computer science, I live on the fifth floor, and I like it here so far."

She raised her eyebrows. "You have a little trouble with this whole socializing thing, don't you?"

"I'd just rather talk about more interesting things than this silly Mad Libs 'networking' bull we're forced to learn here."

"Well, what do you want to talk about?"

"Not sure. Just curious though, is there anyone here you already don't like?"

"Gosh no, it's only been two days, I'm not going to make those kinds of judgments that fast."

"Sure you won't."

"Okay, well, I just might add a certain Ryan to the list now."

"That's a start."

"Why do you ask anyway?"

"Because I just met someone that I didn't like. She's over there, pouring some soda."

"That's my roommate."

"Oh. Well, in that case, have fun."

"...See you around Ryan."

"Before you go: would you like to go for a walk sometime?"

She didn't seem to hear.

†††

"...So anyway, that's what we've been doing in Music 51. I guess I like it -- it takes so much time though. How's your French class going?"

"Eh, it goes. But no, I think it's all right, even though the teacher definitely cares more about the language than we do."

"Well, the only French words I know are 'love' and 'death.' La mort and l'amour."

"I would think that most people would learn how to say their name or ask where the bathroom is before learning la mort or l'amour." She laughed.

"My sister taught me those two words, actually. They almost sound the same when you say them, don't they?"

"I never noticed that. Huh."

"She brought it up because I was talking to her about this one song, 'What Sarah Said.' The last line is Love is watching someone die. So who's going to watch you die?"

 "And what did she say?"

"Well, she pointed out that every successful marriage ends with someone dying."

"That's pretty depressing."

"You really think so?"

"I mean, yeah. Isn't that really sad?"
I shrugged. "I think it's beautiful."

"I kind of wonder though: it usually only takes a few years for people to decide to get married, right? Say you get married when you're thirty and all goes well. Then you've got another forty, fifty years or so with that person. You only spent one-twentieth of your life making a decision that will affect more than half of it."

She thought for a moment. "I don't know if I'll ever be ready to make that kind of commitment."

"Exactly. I can't even predict how I'm going to be in two years. How am I supposed to figure out whether I'll be happy with some girl for the rest of my life?"

She stopped and looked at me. "I guess you just have to try."

†††

"Huh. Didn't think you would be outside this late."

"This blizzard's pretty awesome, I don't want to sleep right now. And my window won't close, so my room's really cold anyway."

"Ah. Well, don't look over at the statue for the next few minutes. We're going to...yeah."

"Not bad, two out of three in freshman year. Primal Scream, then this...that just leaves the Widener stacks...."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that last one."

I made my way over to the statue. " Jen, I'll come look at your window when we're done, okay?"

It was 2:30 AM when I knocked on her door. I stood on her chair and tried to shut the window, but it soon became apparent that whatever I did wasn't going to do any good. We started talking, until we realized her roommate was sleeping. So we went to my room. A few minutes passed with idle conversation.

"I'm going to put my head on your shoulder in about ten seconds."

"You really don't have to announce it like that, you know."

A head on my shoulder soon became an arm wrapped around mine. Then, at some point in the night, she turned sideways, leaning her entire body into my arms. Flirting on the edge of unconsciousness, she sank deeper and deeper, dragging me along with her.

We woke up several hours later with a start. It was 7:00 AM.

The room was silent, but our words and feelings and emotions screamed within our minds. I replayed the conversation that we had just the morning before. I was just thinking/"We" are ambiguous/Do you want it to be clear/I don't know/I'm patient I can wait/I like you but I just/But what/I don't know. I thought about the shirt I gave her for Christmas that had nine adorable kittens on it and how she told me she loved  the shirt but was hesitant to wear it because it would represent "us" being an item, and yet she wore it the very next day. I wondered why she just did what she did last night if she wasn't sure, and why I had let her in the first place. I asked myself whether I could see myself with this girl for the rest of my life, despite the fact that weren't even dating yet. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

She broke the silence, saying aloud what we both we knew the other had been thinking.

"That wasn't very ambiguous, was it?" she asked weakly.

"No," I said.

"It sure wasn't."

†††

"You ever read The Little Prince? It's a French book, actually."

"Yup. I thought it was a very beautiful story."

"Well, I finally got around to reading it last night."

"Did you like it?"

"I loved it. I was thinking though: you know how the fox tells the Little Prince that his rose is unique because he has tamed her? What's stopping the Little Prince from taming any other rose? What if two roses showed up on his planet instead of that one rose? Hell, what's stopping him from taming all of the roses in that rosebush?"

She nodded. "I see your point. But if he's already in love with that one rose, I don't get why he would worry about taming any other rose."
"But the Little Prince could have just gone ahead and installed a sprinkler system or something. He could have just as easily killed off those baobabs to save one rose or two roses or twenty roses, and as stupid as it sounds, he could have just built a bigger plastic dome. There really isn't anything different about one rose to the next, and he knows that. The only difference is that she just happened to be the one he tamed first."

"Which leads into why you don't think that anybody is truly unique to all the world," she said.

"Right. There are far too many people on this planet for that to be true. Somewhere, somehow, I'm pretty sure you can find someone else similar enough to take your place in society."
"Well, I think you're very unique. That's why I like being with you."

"I don't feel the same way about that."

"But don't you think there's a difference between being unique to all the world and being unique to a certain person?"

I turned to meet her eyes. "What do you mean by that?"
"Well, I agree that it was just random chance that the Little Prince tamed that rose. Any other rose could have landed there and the Little Prince wouldn't have known the difference. But that's the thing, though; it was by chance that it just so happened to be her. And it just so happened that he was there to take care of her."

"So I guess what I'm saying is, you have to remember that out of all of the infinite possibilities and all the flowers in the world, the Little Prince just happened to fall in love with that one rose. That in itself is pretty special, isn't it? I mean, sure, the people you meet may not be unique. But that doesn't make them any less important."

"I think you're important to me, Ryan."

†††

"So finally I walk in my room, and by now it's 3:30 AM because we had to walk back from Boston Commons. And guess what I see? My roommate is in his boxers with some topless girl that I've never seen in my life, on my bed. I'm beyond exhausted at this point, so I just tell them to do their business in his room. I grab my toothbrush and go to the bathroom, and when I come back, now the lights are off. Someone got up to turn off the lights, but then decided to get back in my bed to do who knows what. Unbelievable."

"Wow."

"Yeah. That night of The Game was pretty insane, but for all the wrong reasons."

We were sitting by the pond in the Commons, holding hands. A massive willow tree swayed its shaggy unkempt locks in the wind, casting its leaves towards the sheet of ice that lay below.

"Why don't we do that kind of insane stuff anymore?"

I chuckled. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know, sometimes I feel like we're just going through the motions, and we're only staying together because it's familiar."

"Familiarity just means stability, and I don't think there's anything unromantic about that."

"It's a lot less exciting though," she said, pulling her hands away.

"You think relationships actually exist that always stay that exciting?"

"It would be nice."

The wind stopped, and the willow tree slowly oscillated to a halt. Near the subway station, a man started playing Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue on his trumpet. It had always been one of Jen's favorite songs. She had played the solo piano arrangement for me before, and I was particularly fond of the slow middle section. It has a very pretty melody of course, but what I think makes it special is how the rest of the piece is so frantic. Somewhere in the urban inferno, that scrambling young man was able to find calm and happiness, however fleeting it may have been.

I closed my eyes for a moment. "You know how every fairy tale always ends with 'And they lived happily ever after.'? Have you ever wondered why they don't ever talk about what happens afterwards? The knight slays the dragon and saves the princess, sure. But that's just the story of how they met. If what you're saying is true, isn't all the good stuff supposed to be about their life together after they get married?"

"Right, ideally marriages can keep getting better and better," she said after a pause.

"But see, I realized something the other day. Those stories always end at 'Happily Ever After' because it's just too depressing to admit that love is a lot harder than just falling in love. The whole point of reading fairy tales isn't because they're realistic and relatable, but because on some level, I think that's how we wish reality actually was."

She looked away, mindlessly running the tip of her shoes along the contours of the sidewalk.

"Do you want to keep walking?" I asked.

"No, not really."

We buried our hands in our own pockets on the way back.

†††

No, I can't keep this. Can't keep that either. No. No. Definitely no.
She wondered as she looked around at her room, the floor strewn with torn envelopes and photos: what does it take to forget someone?
A crumpled slip of paper caught her eye. She walked over to pick it up, momentarily disregarding the mess she had made. It was blank, save for three faded words.

He had lied when he said he loved her.
She meant it every time. 

But then, what was she doing now, falling for another? For in truth, it was none other than him once again; a different face and a different smile, sure, but identical in all the important ways -- the things she had since learned to scrutinize more closely.

So why again?

She wondered as the flames engulfed her frozen heart once more -- does the phoenix possess the knowledge that it will be reborn, or does it relive the agony of dying over and over again?

†††

"I didn't think you would come," I muttered.

She took off her red blazer and draped it over her arms. "You didn't seem to care if I came. So I did."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"When you stop caring, something's wrong."

I looked away. "Let's walk."

We turned towards the statue and made our way towards the gate. A middle-aged woman stopped in front of us, her feet stocked on four-inch heels and her face plastered with powdery insecurity. Her husband scampered along after her, appearing less like a partner and more like a suitcase, slouched over from the burden of her purse and her unspoken frustrations. She gestured to her husband, and he obediently took the lid off of his camera to capture the scene that surely wasn't going anywhere soon.

"Did you like it here?" she asked.

"Why are there always tourists? I don't understand. It's not even that pretty."

"You don't have to take photos of only pretty things."

"It's a statue of some rich schmoe that everyone mistakes as some other famous guy. And you'd only know that if you had paid some tour guide to read you a script from the Wikipedia page, or you're a student here."

"Well, I think it looks nice."

"I hope no one thinks I'm nice."

"That's a strange thing to hope for."

"If the only word you can use to describe the sum of all of my thoughts, experiences, habits, and mannerisms is 'nice,' then you're just calling me boring."

"Believe me, you're not a very nice person, so don't worry."

She briefly tilted her head towards me, and our eyes met. I tried to casually pan my gaze over to the right, as if my eyes had only momentarily rested on hers. 

"How are you?" she asked.

"Fine."

"Okay, but how are you?"

"If you're trying to incite some 'deep, meaningful' conversation from me, we should just stop now."

"Look, I'm just asking how you're doing."

"But are you really? When I used to pass by that cute girl on the first floor while walking to the elevator, the only words that we ever said were Hi, Hello, How are you, Good, See you. Sure, there's a question mark at the end. But I'm not so sure: is she actually asking or just saying that?"

"Well, seeing as you don't feel like talking about yourself, I'm doing rather well. Thanks for asking."

We continued on our way across the yard. I tried my best to keep my eyes glued straight ahead, walking with perhaps a bit too much confidence to seem believable.

"I forgot, what did you say you want to do? You keep changing your mind."

"I want to sit at home and just watch television all day."

She laughed. "I meant for a career."

"Something that will let me retire early so that I can sit at home and watch television."

"You don't think you'd get bored of that?"

"I probably will. Why do you want to be a doctor?"

"Well, because I like knowing that I would actually be helping people."

"Conveniently, those same people have to pay you a lot of money too."

"Seriously Ryan, do you have to be so cynical about everything?"

We came to the intersection that separated the rest of campus from the nearby river. The red light flicked on and the little orange hand stopped blinking as we set foot on the pavement. We kept walking forward.

"I mean, I'm sure when you were younger, you didn't want to just sit at home and do nothing when you grew up."

"I wanted to be an orthodontist when I was in middle school."

"Any reason?"

"It looked like a stable job with good pay."

"And what happened to that?"

"I realized there were lots of other ways to make a stable living that didn't involve cashing in on people's insecurities and fumbling with crooked teeth."

The familiar opening arpeggios of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" rang through the plaza. Some four years ago, I had gathered the ignorant courage to perform that very song for a fundraiser. I was still too embarrassed about that performance to enjoy listening to that song now.

"Let's sit over there."

"Is there a reason you asked me to come walk with you?"

"Because I wanted to. I'm sorry, do I need a reason to go on a walk?"

She drew her hands out from her pockets. "You know, I used to like talking to you."

"So did I."

"There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure
'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.

In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven."

"Ryan, do you hate me?"

"No. You're not important enough for me to hate."

I thought about all the other times we had walked and talked. I thought about the arguments and fights that had slowly severed our friendship. I thought about the silly inside jokes we had made and shared. How she made fun of me for always getting two cups of water at breakfast when I could never finish one. How we had talked about The Little Prince and all those roses in the rosebush. How she had gone to lunch twice just so she wouldn't have to tell someone "No, I already ate." How she had set afire my frozen tin heart, refroze it, then thawed it once more.

"But I used to think you were."

"What am I to you now?"

"You're one in a million. But there are seven billion people on this planet, and there are seven thousand people just like you. You're just one rose in a garden of beautiful flowers."

By now we had reached the river, and after a couple seconds of silent deliberation, I chose to head towards the left. She went to the right and we bumped into each other. I remembered how I used to "accidentally" bump into her while we were still getting to know each other, just so that I could find a few moments of fleeting joy from her physical contact. But then again, accidents were all I had ever known. Just like our first meeting, or how we became friends, or our relationship of three years, or the end of that relationship, or now our outward appearance of just being acquaintances. It had all been an accident, a freakish chain of random chance. How else could I explain it all to myself?

She paused. "Ryan, I have to go now."

"Thanks for coming."

"See you."

"Maybe."

I wondered whether I would ever build such a strong connection with someone ever again. I wondered how things would have been different had I not gone to that freshman social that August afternoon. I wondered if the Little Prince and his rose ever had the chance to live out their own 'Happily Ever After.'  And then I remembered the answer.

They didn't.

I sat down on a bench by the river and threw stones at the sky.

the gray

i suppose there is nothing wrong with uncertainty
unfortunately supposing and believing are not the same.
"you only see things in black and white," i've been told
"you can't always expect an answer."
as if i do so because im blind to gray

i probably am blind though, in a way
but not because the rods and cones of my brain
cannot process the duller shades.
i detest mulling for too long in the gray
because im not strong enough to stay.

i changed my mind on the matter at least five times, i realize.
"yes" became "maybe" became "definitely" became "please" became "sigh."
so in that sense, i am no better than you
you who went to lunch twice to avoid a trivial confrontation
you who was so mind-numbingly sure of being unsure.

were i not already so entrenched in gray
i wouldn't have cared whether you were as well.
so perhaps that is what you desire
not a fellow man tracing circles in the dark without any conviction
but a blind man who is boneheaded enough to keep sprinting forward.

i tried to play the part, you know
i pulled out the list of action verbs and the present tense
let's do this, let's do that, do you want to.
but the verbs, while outwardly full of action
were stillborn by our mutual passivity.

that man isn't me.
me is the little boy who worries about irrelevant matters to the point of giving up
me is the newspaper boy who forcibly finds amusement in the obsolescence of his job
me is the foolish boy who interprets everything too much and too dramatically
me is the loving boy who plays with the concerns of adults without comprehending them.

so yes, i lied when i said i was confident things would work out.
i don't believe in myself or you enough to say that
because when two are trapped in the gray
moving aimlessly and cautiously
even the longest of time may not bring them to black and white.

who am i to you, i wondered
"a friend, but not romantically"
or that shoulder and arm you clung to for hours on end?
and so it was that i then decided to offer you the pureness of white
only to have it returned  another dull shade of uncertainty.
 
it's disheartening to have lost something that might have been dear to me
a friendship flirting with the chance of something more
though i guess now we'll never know.
who am i to you, i couldn't summon the courage to ask
a question i possibly never will.

yet even with all this uncertainty and ambiguity
perhaps this is the saddest part of all.
since that time what now seems so long ago
i've stopped caring about the question of who am i to you
not because i no longer wish for one or the other
or because i have already forgotten how.
no, i've given up thinking about that question
because i've realized that i already know your answer.

"I don't know."

Love and death

I suppose it's not a particularly new idea that love and death are connected -- we see this in the phrase "til death do us part," the hilariously melodramatic Romeo and Juliet, the ending line of "What Sarah Said" by Deathcab for Cutie, and countless other pieces of culture that I am too ignorant to think of at the moment.

Evidently, there's something about the concept of love that leads us to believe that it ought to last an entire lifetime -- that is, until death.

I guess that's what scares me the most. Not the loving itself, but the unwritten lifetime contract associated with it.

You can break the contract, sure; some people even go so far as to expect it of others. But the issue is that the contract isn't just about you -- there's another person involved too. And I don't know if I can entrust myself with that much responsibility.

Of course, it's also just as likely that you are that "other person."

---------------------------------


My sister once pointed out to me that in French, love and death sound essentially the same: l'amour and la mort.

It might just be a coincidence.

----------------------------------

Operating under the assumption that couples fall in love before their 30s, choosing your significant other is something that will potentially affect 2/3 of your entire life -- a decision that took maybe a tenth of your life to make.

That worries me.

---------------------------------

----------------------------------

The frightening part about death is that it's inevitable; the frightening part about love is that nothing is.

Somehow, the latter seems worse.

---------------------------------

I don't actually know where I'm going with this, "this" meaning a variety of things.

But I'm patient.
---------------------------------

The nice guy loses

"I was late to understand that chaos and intensity are no substitute for lasting love, nor are they necessarily an improvement on real life. Normal people are not always boring. On the contrary. Volatility and passion, although often more romantic and enticing, are not intrinsically preferable to a steadiness of experience and feeling about another person. These are beliefs, of course, that one has intuitively about friendships and family; they become less obvious when caught in a romantic life that mirrors, magnifies, and perpetuates one's own mercurial emotional life and temperament."

Is it odd that I never found instability to be appealing?

Rosebush

I finally got around to rereading The Little Prince, and perhaps unsurprisingly, the rosebush story stuck out to me once again.

A lot has happened in the three years since, however.

After seeing an entire wall of roses, the fox tells the Little Prince that his rose is unique because he has tamed her. He was the one who watered her, protected her from baobabs and shielded her in plastic. For that, so the fox says, she is special to him and unique to all the world.

But then I started to wonder: what's stopping him from taming any other rose? What if not one, but two roses had miraculously appeared on his planet?

Hell, what's stopping him from taming all of the roses in that rosebush?

Because if he really wanted to, the Little Prince could have just gone ahead and installed a sprinkler system. He could have just as easily killed off baobabs for the sake of one rose or two roses or twenty roses, and as ridiculously stupid as it sounds, he could have just built a bigger plastic dome.

There really isn't anything intrinsically different about one rose to the next, and the Little Prince is well aware of that; the only difference is that she just happened to be the one he tamed first.

Then again, nearly everything is a matter of chance.

I still don't think that anybody is truly unique to all the world, like the fox suggested; there are far too many people on this planet for that to be true. Somewhere, somehow, you can find someone else similar enough to take your place in society.

With that said, there is a distinction between being unique to all the world and being unique to a certain time and place.

It's safe to say that the rose magically appearing on his planet was nothing more than random chance; any other rose could have landed there and the Little Prince wouldn't have known the difference.

That's the thing, though; it was by chance that it just so happened to be her.

And it just so happened that he was there to take care of her.

It's for this reason that I no longer think life becomes any less meaningful or precious once you accept that nobody is unique. If anything, the true beauty of it is the fact that out of all of the infinite possibilities, you happened to meet the people that you met.

The people you meet may not be special.

But it doesn't make them any less important.

Phoenix

No, I can't keep this. Can't keep that either. No. No. Definitely no.

He sighed as he looked around at his room, the floor strewn with torn envelopes and photos: what does it take to forget someone?

A crumpled slip of paper caught his eye. He walked over to pick it up, momentarily disregarding the mess he had made. It was blank, save for three faded words.

She had lied when she said she loved him.
He meant it every time.

And to think I had loved her.

But then, what was he doing now, falling for another?

For in truth, it was none other than she once again; a different face and a different smile, sure, but identical in all the important ways -- the things he had since learned to scrutinize more closely.

So why again?

He wondered as the flames engulfed his frozen heart once more -- does the phoenix possess the knowledge that it will be reborn, or does it relive the agony of dying over and over again?

Frozen over

He was of tin and steadfast loyalty; she was of paper and ephemeral beauty. Nobody could touch them. Passion had consumed them; fire had swallowed them whole. But nothing burns forever. In the aftermath, she was gone without a trace, save the jewel she once proudly wore, now left behind. He, on the other hand, had been so malleable, so easily deformed by love that when the last embers were finally cooled, all that could be sifted from the ashes was a cold metal heart.

- L

What is attachment but a sense of dependency? You give and take, you lean and are leaned upon -- you need and are needed.

That's all it is. There isn't much to be afraid of.

I understand that we're incredibly different people in this respect, but I sincerely doubt that desperately gripping every part of your mind and refusing to surrender control to anyone else has done anything to help you conquer your feelings.

The tin soldier may have died with a heart hardened by the painful trysts of love. But at least he had known how it felt to have his heart engulfed by the feelings of another. At least he had faced the fires and valiantly danced in them, if only to be consumed shortly after. At least he had finally broken down his cast-iron box and let in the sun's warmth.

The tin soldier died in agony. But he didn't die alone.
 
And so I ask you:
Is your frozen heart really any different from that tin soldier's metal heart?

Romanticizing

"Or love in general, for that matter. It just leads to the idea that either your love is pure, perfect, and eternal, and you are storybook-compatible in every way with no problems, or you're LYING when you say I love you."


Yeah, I found the comic pretty funny, especially since one of my friends seems to fit into that panel quite well. But the mouse over text (the quote underneath the comic) was a lot more interesting to me.


To be clear, he's not saying that we should freely say the phrase "I love you" to just anyone. He's not trying to criticize society for holding something as finicky and abstract as love on a high pedestal.

He is pointing out the problem with romanticizing love. And by romanticize, he doesn't mean being romantic or mushy; he means taking love and running it though seven different hair stylists and makeup artists, then topping it off with a Photoshop session so that the end result is unblemished and, well, perfect.

- too perfect.

It's become very apparent over the last few months that we disagree on a number of things. But I'm totally fine with that; if anything, I enjoy it. It makes our conversations a lot more lively and engaging. As much as we like our opinions to be affirmed, a wall that just echoes every word doesn't make for very interesting conversation.

It didn't come as a surprise to me that we disagree on love and marriage. She believes in perfect, ideal marriages filled with equally perfect, eternal love. She says it's a girl thing, that it's every girl's guilty dream to grow up to find a perfect man. And I can respect that.

I thought about it though, and I realized that I've never really believed in perfect marriages or perfect love. For as long as I can remember, my opinion on it hasn't really changed one way or the other. But I don't think that's just because I've always been pragmatic my entire life, or because my parents raised me to be skeptical of perfect love.

I've never believed in perfect love because I don't want it to be perfect. I don't want love to be eternal, to be wholly unconditional and unbreakable.

Because if that's true, then what's stopping you from taking it for granted? Your infatuation?

Hah. Infatuation.


No, I want love to be fragile. I want it to be challenging -- a struggle, if you will.
I want it to be something worth fighting for - long after I already found it.

Because perfection isn't beautiful.
Pain is.

Criteria

If you say
That you couldn't see him in that way
What do you really mean to convey?
That he's nothing more than a diversion?
That he's not a part of your vision?

If you decide
That you simply like having him by your side
What are you trying to hide?
That he's important, but not so much?
That he's moved you, but only a touch?

And if you conclude
That you just aren't in the mood
What instead will be understood?
That he's a flower, but not a rose?
That he's your doll, but undeserving of your prettier clothes?

I say to you
Fear the day
That you and your beauty, once again become two
For gone will be
Your submissive diversion
Your uncharming flower
Your forgotten doll.

Forget it.

ryan talking about love...lol

"The knight slays the dragon and then lives happily ever after with the princess in the castle, but when they've moved in together, they have to share a bathroom. How do you keep love alive in a domestic situation? What is it about that that dismantles love?"
-Ryan Gosling

KNIGHT: Honey, you’ve been in the bathroom for an hour already! Are you almost done?
PRINCESS: Excuse me, but I had to wait in that stupid tower for “an eternity” before you finally showed up. Who are you to tell me about waiting? (opens the door) Stop whining.
KNIGHT: Whining?! Who had to risk his precious body to slay that dragon when you were crying out?
PRINCESS: Don’t you try that again. You’re not the only one who’s slain a dragon before. I’m sure lots of other handsome men would have done the same – men that actually put the damn toilet seat down.
KNIGHT: For God’s sake, I’m a knight! Knights don’t care about insignificant things like toilet seats.
PRINCESS: Apparently, they don’t care about aiming for the bowl either.

We all know how the fairy tale ends – the strong, dashing knight in armor sweeps the beautiful princess off her feet and onto his gleaming white horse as they ride off into the magnificent sunset. As the story fades to a close, we see a heartwarming image of their intertwined lives in the future, complete with double rainbows, blue skies, prancing rabbits and a choir of birds, serenading the lovers as they continue off to the castle. And at last, we are met with the iconic phrase of fairy tales: “and they lived happily ever after.”

Or did they?

In the vast majority of fairy tales, the knight saves the day and then marries the beautiful princess. All is well in the Kingdom, for the monster of the land has been slain. The End.

Well, I hate to burst your bubble, Mr. and Mrs. Knight, but the story has only just gotten started. Remember know that fat, flaming dragon you had to kill? Well, it turns out that the dragon was just a little warm-up for what’s coming next.

Take a moment to look at your lover face. Study it closely. Try to remember all your "firsts" as a couple -- the first time you met, your first date, your first anniversary, your first vacation.

But eventually you will look into those same eyes and see not "firsts," but "lasts." The last time you would trust him to go out alone with female coworkers. The last time you would let her sign up for yet another credit card. The last time you would ever say "I love you."

By no means do I understand all the intricacies of marriage, but judging from today’s divorce rates, neither do the majority of first-marriage couples. As unromantic and vile as it may sound, love really isn't something that you can depend on to stay constant in a continuously evolving world. Perhaps in middle school and all those delusional fairy tales, love at first sight and blind infatuation are all that matter. But all too often, that initial spark of first love doesn't last.

Sooner or later, maybe those daily kisses on the cheek will turn into a somber “Hi” or even a mere nod. For every conflict that arises, a marriage based solely on romantic infatuation weakens. “How are we supposed to pay these bills?” “Why did you buy another designer-brand purse?” “Why don’t we go out anymore?” “Why can’t you put the toilet seat down?” In all honesty, it's pretty difficult to be romantic towards someone who is berating you for your mistakes.

Arguably, the real “dragon” that the knight must conquer is not that oversized lizard with fiery breath, but the challenge of building a marriage that holds to their wedding vows: till death do us part.

A marriage is not meant to be like some prepackaged microwave dinner that you can just buy and enjoy. It takes serious and dedicated effort on both sides to work, a requirement that some are unable to meet.

I don’t think it is “true love” when the princess finally meets her one and only knight and gets married right after.

Indeed, that’s probably why those fairy tale authors never included what happened afterwards. It’s too depressing to accept that true love isn’t about romantic infatuation, but about the perseverance needed to keep that initial spark alive long after romantic infatuation has phased out.

No pain no gain.

The search - valentine's day

Every February leading up to Valentine’s Day, Charlie Brown lingers around the mailbox, desperately awaiting a Valentine’s Day card. And year after year, the merciless Charles Schulz has turned down Charlie’s wish.

On the other hand, my elementary school teachers, who were much nicer than Schulz, made us write a Valentine’s card for every classmate. Not only did this tradition provide good practice on writing the alphabet, it ensured no one would have to endure the same disappointment as Charlie Brown.

But a few years later, Valentine’s Day practically became taboo. The predominant attitude towards Valentine’s Day in middle school was one of immense contempt and disrespect. It was no longer cool to participate in Valentine’s Day. Why we thought that way, I’ll never know.

Interestingly enough, there was no longer a need for teachers to ensure that every student received a card. Most of the time, nobody did; the problem of students feeling left out had virtually solved itself. A card-less student in elementary school was now just like everyone else in middle school: too cool for Valentine’s Day cards.

Too bad Charlie Brown never made it to middle school.

So here I am, in high school. Valentine’s Day has regained its power, and I expect many couples to have something planned for February 14. People ask their crushes on dates now, and those cheeky boxes of candy hearts are making their way back. It seems like everyone suddenly got bolder and braver with Valentine’s Day festivities. There are actually people giving Valentines to friends now.

Well, of course, they’re not giving them to everyone, but still.

From high school onward, Valentine’s Day gains increasing importance. It becomes one of the most popular days to propose, to get married, or to mend a tight relationship. Now, there is pressure on adults to do something for Valentine’s Day. Why?

There is this commercialized aspect of Valentine’s Day that makes it standard for husbands to do something special on February 14. Whether he buys roses or chocolates, society has come to expect some monetary sacrifice for Valentine’s Day. Spending money for Valentine’s Day is now a requirement for showing your love.
The intent behind Valentine’s Day gifts is to make him or her feel special, at least for that day. But if everyone knows that the true motivation is that of some arbitrary expectation of society, chocolate and flowers on Valentine’s Day just doesn’t seem that special anymore.

Gifts are no longer an expression of true love; they’re just a ticket to getting out of trouble with one’s significant other. Even from the days of elementary school, valentines just don’t hold the same prestige anymore. So don’t feel down if no one gives you anything this Valentine’s Day. It’s not like a Valentine’s Day card means that much anyway.

I hope I made you feel better, Charlie Brown.

the column that went unpublished (probably for good reason)

(written for the April/May issue)

Dear People of the Female Variety,
It is that time of year when juniors fervently and frantically romp around, worried yet hopeful. Spring! A time of great stress, studying and allergies, yet also a time of love and joy. Late nights are spent thinking and planning, and early mornings are lost to daydreaming. Now is the time that some juniors fear, yet others embrace at the same time: a true test of courage, skill and determination. How truly brave are we? How will we answer the question, yes or no, true or false? Ah yes, ‘tis the season of AP tests.

Wait, what? You were thinking of Junior Prom?

Oh. Right.

In a time when women are increasingly gaining power and influence in virtually all areas, from the workplace to the political world, there still remains one strange remnant of our sexist past: the unwritten law that men (well, arguably boys) are the ones who are supposed to ask girls to junior prom.

Women have been fighting for equality for quite a while now; isn't it time for women to take up their share of the burden?

Well, judging from what most of you females have said, the answer is a resolute and brusque “No.”

Yeah, yeah, I get the idea that “it’s a tradition,” and “guys are the ones who are supposed to be brave.” Blah, blah, blah, “we don’t want to do it, so it’s your problem.” Fine. I get that.

Still, you would think women’s rights leaders would have thought of dismantling this obsolete societal norm by now. But nooooo. You guys would much rather let us poor insecure males scramble around to figure out what to do.

Now don’t you start calling Ryan Chow a loser, or a chicken, or a cowardly turtle, or whatever. I already know that.

I’m just pointing out this strange little discontinuity in how women like to view their struggle for equality. I mean, I have no problem with equal wages and female suffrage, because those things seem pretty logical to me. But what’s the deal with dances?

Just look at this year’s Sadie’s dance. Or to be precise, this year’s lack of a Sadie’s dance.

Now to be fair, I personally like that we are expected to ask the girls; some pieces of tradition are good to keep. And if you think about it, junior prom is a bit like the encierro in San Fermin, where deranged men run amok leading angry bulls through the streets – it is a test of our manhood and man, is it scary.

So please. Couldn’t you girls at least make it easier for us? You know, maybe like drop a few hints here and there, or at least recognize that we’re planning to ask you? Because currently, we’re stealing all the fun by doing all the asking. Don’t you want to join in the fun too?

…Don’t you?

See, when I told my mom I was going to ask someone, apparently I was visibly nervous or something, because she exclaimed that she had no idea there was so much pressure on boys to ask. And I quote her word for word, “I thought it was really easy for guys to ask.”

My, is my mother mistaken.

But maybe that mentality is why this junior prom tradition still exists. I guess girls just don’t know how scary the whole thing can be. For me, it wasn’t too bad, but for one of my good friends, it’s been the most stressful event of his life. Ever since he conceived of his plan, he has been worrying and worrying. Will I mess up? Will my plan work? Will she say no?

So you see, females, we are actually very afraid of asking you to junior prom, because for one, we’re essentially trying to shoot in the dark, and two, there’s always that dreaded phrase “no.”

While I admit this tradition will not likely fade in the near future, the least you people could do is make it easier for us. If a guy is talking a lot more to you than normal, do us a favor and carry the conversation. If he’s making tons of jokes, even if they’re really, really bad, for god’s sake, laugh. These little things make our lives so much easier. And lord knows we need all the help we can get.

Heck, she changed her mind two days later.