Death of a dreamer

Growing up is a tragedy.

I look at our backyard now and wonder how I was ever able to spend two hours outside with nothing but a shovel. Somehow, I was perfectly happy to repeatedly dig holes and fill them back in, unearthing stones and what I presume were maggots. It all sounds quite futile and mundane, but from what I remember, it was incredibly good fun.

Then there was the fact that my sister and I had our piano lessons consecutively after each other, leaving me with an hour every week to goof around at our teacher's house. It was always a productive hour; I'd set myself to the task of collecting branches from the giant oak tree, or maybe chopping off a usable bamboo pole to fend off a possible monkey invasion. I even took the time to build a miniature aqueduct from a faucet in the yard to the grass several yards away, like a chute for little rocks to tumble down.

Understandably, your first instinct would probably be to say that I lost interest in nature as I grew up because of technology. With all those fancy toys around me, playing outside would naturally start to seem dull.

Yet even with computers and televisions, I was still able to find entertainment in ways that we would find strange. Nowadays, I lose all interest in a game once I finish it. But I clearly remember how I would replay the exact same dungeon over and over in Zelda, to the point that my mother once asked me if I was even doing anything productive. I would never bother to actually move forward in the plot line of Lego Island, instead electing to build cars and drive around delivering pizzas. And I was able to watch the same episode of The Magic School Bus repeatedly without ever really understanding what was going on, other than the fact that Arnold was a wuss (the most important lesson of them all, undoubtedly).

But I think childhood was more than about having fun. In the larger sense of the word, childhood was about dreaming.

For one, I literally had more dreams (at least, I remembered more of them). My dreams were, on occasion, batshit insane. I still remember a few of them, one of them involving my tennis coach spontaneously catching on fire from yelling at us so much. Another involved a highly complex and intense obstacle course with my friends and family as the contestants -- death awaited all who failed. I also vaguely remember having to face a horde of moblins armed with a guitar and a lightbulb (how I got myself out of that one, I don't remember. I probably just died then woke up or something). Then of course there were the typical naked dreams and flying dreams.

But I also dreamed about my life more. I was a little man with big plans. For instance, I told my mom I was going to become the CEO of the world's biggest company and do whatever it is that rich people do for fun. I also said I was planning on making it to Wimbledon some day, though even I knew at the time that it was essentially impossible for me to actually win.

Fast forward to when I'm 13, sitting in the car on the way tennis practice. I certainly had trashed any notion of making it to Wimbledon by now. My mother is talking to me about the importance of high school or something, and she brings up the topic of having to figure out what it is I want to do when I grow up.

I said I wanted to be an orthodontist.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because it doesn't look very hard for how much money they make, and it seems pretty safe."

The dreamer had died long ago.

He might come back someday, true. Maybe I'll get some flash of idealistic risk-mongering and pursue something that doesn't involve security and stability for once. But more likely than not, I won't. I'll be satisfied with doing what's safe and practical for the rest of my life, because I'm far too aware of the fact that dreaming doesn't get you food on the table.

Satisfied. What a tragic word.

What an ugly word.

"I just want to be happy, Dad."
"Don't talk to me about happiness. You don't know what being happy means."
"I don't. But I know enough to tell that you aren't."

Memento

If I had to choose a phrase to describe Harvard, I'd say "the future."

For the most part, I mean that as a compliment.

I'm not at liberty to generalize Harvard students, but I think it's safe to say that we're always thinking about the future. We build our brains and our resumes for that future in finance or medicine or law or academia or education or journalism or business. We go into hysterics figuring out which of the above we would like to in the future, and predicting our future happiness or satisfaction with said career. We are excited for the future, and we love thinking about all the ways that things can become just a little bit better if we make an effort. And though we're humble enough not to admit it, we like to think that to some extent, we are the future.

It's easy to find a dream of your own when everyone around you has theirs (though it can be quite intimidating).

I just hope we don't forget how we got to where we are and where we're going to be. Because once "we've made it," I think there's a very real possibility that we'll have lost touch with who we used to be.

I understand that the whole premise of colleges like Harvard is that they are life-changing. But apart from the academic part of it and the career aspect of it, I think we tend to overlook the fact that our value systems are also going to change. Things like our political views, our perspective, our social worlds, and our culture are all going to be affected one way or the other. You don't appreciate classical music? You wouldn't enjoy a debate about the origins of morality over jasmine tea? You don't follow what's going on in the White House? Then how can you consider yourself a Harvard graduate?

I generalize and dramatize, of course. But I still feel there's quite a bit of truth behind it.

So here's hoping that when I walk across that stage, I'll still recognize the Ryan of four years past, sitting far away in the back.

I hope he'll be smiling.

a writer

            Son, when you grow up, you can be anything you want.

            Anything?           

            Well, of course. Any kind of doctor.   

            Your parents didn't tell you to study hard and become a doctor because they wanted you to take care of them when they grow old. They wanted you to become a doctor because it would mean security and stability.

            Screw stability, you said. I love writing.

            And perhaps you'll be successful as a writer. Perhaps you won't be – success is subjective, anyhow. So long as you're happy and doing what you love, you convince yourself that it's worth it. You put up with the dingy apartment, and you learn to cope with sleep deprivation. You find ways to postpone paying the rent, and you take all the odd jobs you can fit.

            True, you may very well be the happiest person alive. But it can be hard for the people around you to understand that.

            I just want to be happy, Dad.

**

            "So I take it you want to be a writer. Well, what are you interested in?"

            "I like writing fiction," he responded.

            "I see." He paused.

            "Good luck."        

**

Do

"What makes you do the things you do? Why do you do what you do?"

Mom: I want to make the most of my time here.
Biology professor: Sex.
Lydia: So that one day I can do what I want to do.
Leon: Because I want to, damn it. This shouldn't even be a question.
Me: I don't know. I just want to be happy.

I should try asking more people this question.

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."

TFZ

My computer science homework for this week: TFZ.

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.
---------------------------------