Where is the music today?

There is a mass of white noise - other music by other people, the usual worries, anger that I've been trying to tamp down all evening, sleepiness - that has been wrapped around me all day.  I remember that when I was younger, I would occasionally press one too many digits on the television remote, accidentally calling for a channel that we didn't have.  The confused television would then respond with "snow"...and that sound.  That sound scared the living daylights out of me.  I used to run to the next room until my mum, bless her, corrected the problem, hitting the right buttons to quiet the awful noise and bring back my precious cartoons.  To this day, I am unusually careful with the remote.  (This is not to say that I watch that much television anymore; one of those things no one tells you when you're preparing for college life is that you will become very familiar with online television sites.)

Anyway.  White noise.  And there's a song hiding in it, tucked away somewhere in the middle of the snow.  If I could just write it, I think I would have some sense of being finished with this.  But it doesn't look like that will happen anytime tonight.  Tonight, my organic chemistry textbook is waiting for me in my room upstairs, but whenever I'm there, all I can see is my guitar and a long list of things I thought I would want to remember forever.

Snatches of peace

With a heavy heart, he hammers away at the keyboard until the veins in his hands are blue-green in the glow of the LED.  His hair is mussed.  His sweatshirt probably needs washing.  A half-eaten oatmeal raisin cookie lies at the bottom of a bowl beside him, forgotten.  It has been too long since something tasted sweet.

This time, he managed to catch the lethargy.  This time.  It had been circling the periphery of his consciousness, closing in like so many vultures, and so he hurried to wind his words around a trellis of half-baked thoughts.  The words were meant to clear the fog, to organize his story into a beginning, a middle, and an end.  But as always, all they do is give him a soundproof room, an escape.  A tear splatters on his right thumbnail.  No one notices.  No one hears.  No one wakes.  A moment of frustration, a moment of peace.  He is used to this room, this cop-out.  It is a comfortable alternative to reflection.  He understands this, smiles wryly at the simplicity of it all.  It is far easier to lounge in this room than it is to make sense of the world.  He will risk all of the frustration life may hurl at him, just for those snatches of peace.

Sometimes, however, the light scrambles through the gaps in the trellis.  Brilliant jets bend down, down, down, gently, gracefully, to his temples.  They warm him.  They stroke his hair like his mother used to so he would fall asleep, even when these monsters were around.

Exhaling softly, he opens his eyes.  He studies his nail, and wipes it clean against his left sleeve.  He crosses and uncrosses his legs, noting with a sigh that his joints complain.  Although he feels old, his body has a long way to go.  As he pads upstairs to bed, his mother hears him.  She is still awake and yes, she hears him.  But he will never know.  Her mind drifts to a memory of his reassuring smile.  She wearily pulls the covers closer to her chin on this frosty night.  Perhaps he will remember how to smile in the morning.

Please?

It was a normal day.  I, the humble intern, eagerly chased medical knowledge that will only be of real use to me in three years and made silent wishes for monetary compensation: could I be paid for earnestness and pure intentions?  Please?

It was a normal night.  Thoughts roiled, stewed, contorted into muddied attempts at reflection and weary, half-hearted laughter.  I tried to quiet the rumbling expectations of everlasting peace and made silent pleas for a few hours instead: may I sleep tonight?  Please?

I wonder why I felt that I had to return to this topic.  Is it that I haven't yet reconciled my mum's oft-repeated advice ("Don't be the hunter; be the hunted,") with my impatience?  Is it that my reflection felt incomplete?  Is it that I felt incomplete?  Whatever the reason(s), the fact remains that now, I face another day, another night.  Will they be normal, too?  And if all I can ever be sure of is the present, isn't that impossible to predict?  Why can't I have just one peek into my future?  Please?

Although I have finally shed the initial disappointment, a more durable form remains, one which quietly chips at self-esteem and slyly hacks away at confidence.  Was I in love with the idea of being in love?  And will I ever learn to be patient?  Will this fog clear once I get some sleep, or is this going to be the stubborn kind of confusion that actually requires me to think?

Usually, I like this about myself, that I always have questions.  But when the answers demand reflection, my inquisitive nature feels like more of a curse than a blessing.

The KBH.

Sister: I haven't seen her for ten weeks, so naturally, most of our conversation over the past few days has revolved around whether we snore (each sister maintains that she sounds quite ladylike at night while the other sounds like a freight train) and who's more up-to-date with the latest slang (she insists that the word "failure" is so out as of, like, months ago.)

Brother: I can't get enough of him.  As usual.  Has his six-year-old brain been shocked by the ten weeks' worth of love that has been spilling out over a matter of days?

A model in the making.  He put this outfit together all by himself...from our dad's closet.

He invented a new acronym to add to the archives today: KBH.  A KBH describes the act of charging into another person, head-on, and flinging one's arms and legs around them as tightly as possible.  Ladies and gentlemen, the Koala Bear Hug.

Parents: As we settled into these old, forgotten roles, the foundation grew a few cracks.  I am slowly learning to fill them in with measured conversation and heartfelt music.  I am slowly learning to allow the balance to shift, because I am home.  There was a time when I would marvel bitterly at how quickly a pleasant day could turn sour and terse.  I am slowly learning to notice that with some patience, the converse can happen as well.

P.S. I wonder whether it is possible to upload my songs to this blog.

Five minutes with my shadow

The lukewarm black coffee in my favorite mug from home is glinting in the slats of lukewarm afternoon light through the blinds.  After just a few days of tangy Earl Grey and giddy hopefulness, I've regressed to my reliable addictions to caffeine and mournful Hindi music (lyrics and translation here).  True, they are hampering my progress on my Baroque Music research paper.  But that can't possibly be more important than how I just spent the last five minutes.

I turned on my bedside lamp so the wall beside me glowed a soft, dilute orange.  Before I quite understood why, I lifted my right hand off the keyboard, rested it gently on the wall.  I allowed myself to pretend for a moment that the shadow was a real hand, someone's hand, the perfect complement to my hand, just about to curl its fingers between mine and squeeze my palm.  I  reached around behind me then (with my other hand) and turned off the light.  Alone, now...my hand was alone.  The shadow, just within my grasp a few seconds ago, dissolved as if it had never existed at all.

For now, at least, I've clearly chosen to embrace the cliché.

Fatigue, Facebook, and fro-yo

It's a sleepy morning, and the sky is the muddled color of yesterday's slush.  The muted paisley fabric on this armchair is in desperate need of re-upholstery, but I hope that it goes unnoticed until I leave for the term so that for now, I may sink into the comfort of the worn cloth, the frayed loops of thread arching out from the patterns.

From my vantage point among these bookshelves stuffed with every title from Sarah from Alaska to People of the Whale, I peer through hallowed windows at students warily clutching gloves as they plod from class to class in snow boots that were fished out of closets a day too late.  The stray leaves that haven't yet been neatly blown away from the footpaths have stubbornly plastered themselves to the ground.

Inside the library, there is a similar atmosphere of fatigue which differs from that of the outside only in its source.  Strain your way through the two sets of unnaturally heavy double doors, and when the inevitable, obnoxious draft blasts your face, you will understand.  There is a tangible shift from the feverish nervousness of looming deadlines and fingers blurring as they fly across keyboards to the sluggish, resigned calm of students who know finals are coming, and coming quickly.

The countdowns have begun.  So many Facebook statuses read, "one paper, two lab practicals, three finals, then HOME", or some variation of the same.  I much prefer smaller goals, if only for the more frequent rushes of gratification.  I work towards the next hour, the next night, the next assignment, tomorrow if I feel particularly daring.  But if I were to conform for a moment, I would post the following:

"one lab practical, one research paper, two concert reports, two exams, then SLEEP AND BEN & JERRY'S FRO-YO FOR A WEEK."

Does it count...

...as heartbreak if you never had a chance?

Maybe I shouldn't be writing right now, because I don't think a blog shouldn't be an "emotional throw-up bin" (courtesy of http://meanderingspark.blogspot.com/2010/01/why-blog.html).  I'm fairly confident that this post is going to turn into just that, if I'm not careful.  Perhaps I'll be able to think clearly and write something coherent after I've had time to process...although right now, of course, the idea of processing seems almost laughable.  Apparently, shock does not a coherent writer make, so off I go.  I may or may not return to this post, but whatever the case, I leave with this:

It counts.  There's no rationale, no logic, no justification behind this (which, strangely, only bothers me faintly at present).  There's only a feeling.  And the feeling says that it absolutely counts.

How much thinking is too much thinking?

My mother dispenses perfectly good advice.  At the risk of sounding biased (which I obviously am), I deem her much better than the average guide.  I just wish it were easier for me to accept that guidance.  Obviously, my idiosyncratic mental blocks frustrate her; they frustrate me just as much!  For as much as they make me slow down mentally and actively consider the merits of her suggestions, they're also irritatingly paralytic.  What it comes down to is the issue of how much thinking is too much thinking.

The mind is an exquisitely-designed device; its complexity lies far beyond our comprehension, and I often take that for granted.  But sometimes, situations like the one I encountered this morning remind me that thought can be as complicated as that...or as simple as choosing between the English muffin or the bagel.   (Side note: I always choose the English muffin.  It's those easy choices that give me some hope.)