What I want in a husband

This is not a matrimonial profile in any sense of the term; it is simply a record of...what I want.

• He should be willing to to walk with me on whatever journeys I choose to take.  Brownie points if he initiates new journeys, or if he gives me the courage to begin the journeys that I've always been too fearful to begin.
• He should love and respect my family.  And where/when he falls short (because I am a realist and I know that it will happen), he should want to work to create those bonds or repair the damage.
• He should have the honesty and humility of a child.  This means simultaneously being sensitive to my needs (holding my hand and offering a shoulder when necessary) and being driven to help me grow through him (doling out constructive criticism and offering tough love when necessary).  And just as I will be open to suggestion and growth through him, he should be open to suggestion and growth through me.
• He should love me.  Future Husband, this is the requirement on which all of the others rest.  If you love me, everything else will naturally follow.  As the creator of this list, I promise you that.  But you should be aware that loving me doesn't just mean romance, although that is definitely a crucial part of the deal.  It means that you see the same me, whether I'm wearing my wedding dress or my nightgown.  It means that you want me, whether it feels like the most natural thing in the world or like everything is tumbling down around us.  It means that the thought of hurting me will hurt you...so you will not be able to dream of hurting me.  On the contrary, just to reiterate: you will love me.

P.S. I did not include the obvious qualities that any girl with half a mind for practical foresight would include (financial stability, wanting children, being musical, faithfulness, virginity, and wanting to watch "Grey's Anatomy" with me) because this post is more about emotional requirements.  But Future Husband, know this: those practical requirements are just that - requirements.  They are not optional.  Especially the last one.

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.

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.

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.