Him, Her: Several Perspectives

Been a while, hasn’t it? I’ve been really busy with school. Meaning, REALLY BUSY. Also, university applications have not helped. I think I’m stressing far too much over those.

Anyways, I saw this really beautiful image on National Geographic the other day and I thought I might like to write something inspired by the image. There are four points of view that I decided to take on here. I’m hoping they’re not too obvious, but still discernible…

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She leaned over, trying to get a glimpse of the unknown below, knowing that with any wrong move, any moment could be her last. With her knack of tripping over herself, a powerful gust of wind may even do the job for her.

It wasn’t close enough.

Closing her eyes, she willed her pounding heart to ease. Deep breaths. A light breeze tickled her face, a strand of hair drifting into her eyes. She cringed, the breeze bringing the possibility of falling over––

She shook her head. What was the use of a hike all the way up here if she chickened out last minute? This was her reward. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it.

Chanting that phrase in her mind, she cautiously unclenched her fists, released her gritted teeth, struggled to burrow her right foot into the rigid soil, and shuffled her left foot forward, millimeter by millimeter.

Not quite.

Almost there… The side of the cliff was starting to show…

Yes!

Barely an inch away from the edge, her heartbeat thumping out of her chest, her damp hands clutched onto the straps of her backpack, she finally got her wish.

And all the words forming on the tip of her tongue dissolved.

~

He groaned, his heavy feet impaled into the sand, the never ending nagging of the water chipping off his core.

Little. By. Little.  

He often thought of the creatures who walked on his back. How were they so small, yet so much of his well-being depended on them? He couldn’t deny it: they treated him well. They massaged just the right places, as though they felt the tightness of his muscles in that one perfect spot. They routinely shaved his hair. They shooed away the troublesome pieces of debris that the wind spat onto his body.

Mind you, they were most likely the ones that fed the wind those polluted bits in the first place.

Sometimes, he pictured being in their position.

It would be rather unlucky, to be so miniscule, so vulnerable. The wind seemed as if it could whisk them all away in a matter of seconds.

Standing on the edge of his back was one of the creatures. If he could, he would have released one great, heaving sigh. How brainless they were. It was fortunate that the wind was so kind; otherwise, anyone else may have knocked the creature off already.

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Creeping inch by inch down the layers, he paused. His asthma seemed to be worsening these days; it took him longer to complete the same small patches of territory.

Absolutely not.

It was not time yet.

He was halfway there. He need only endure two more feet of reaching out and folding his stalks around the jagged edges. The rock was icy to his touch, slightly damp from the waves’ persistent badgering, which––Ah.

Only now, it occurred to him that the rock may not have approved of this breach of privacy. It was such a routine in his life by now… He didn’t even think. A wave of shame swept across his leaves, rustling them a little. But how to apologize? Now that he had almost completed his path, there was no way to communicate.

His only hope was that the rock had forgiven this violation by now. There was no time to dawdle; time was a-ticking, and break time was over.

Taking a deep breath, he ventured forth.

~

What a naive fool, she thought, drifting in circles around the creature an inch away from the edge of the rock. She gave a little puff. The creature’s mane fluttered upwards a bit. It stiffened visibly.

Thank goodness she was in a satisfactory mood today; otherwise, she might have considered…

No!

She had to remember the promise she made to herself.

The mere thought of her actions, those weeks ago… It was horrifying. The absolute delight that filled her transparent heart, releasing great extravagant sighs along with her fettered emotions; the slow spread of panic at seeing the mass of creatures teeter and fall over the edge; the piercing screams that filled the air, echoing all the way down the pit; but mostly, the painful angles of the creatures’ parts as they lay on the rocks, red liquid oozing.

Suddenly aware of her breath getting increasingly labored, she bade herself to get it together. It would not happen again, she was sure of it.

This was boring. About time she left.   

Fear, Forgotten: From brother to sister

Remember Colton, from a number of my stories? Yeah, for some reason, I really like using him. Probably because he’s been staying the same old nostalgic, sad guy who thinks and thinks yet never really acts on any of his thinking. He just keeps thinking about the past and about his dad, who’s been dead for several years now, and how he’ll never get over that. I’m sure he will… Eventually. It’s taking a while, mostly because 1. he has no friends and doesn’t try to get any, 2. people are scared of him, 3. he doesn’t know how to socialize properly and saw the right things based on body language/emotion, 4. he doesn’t know how to show body language/emotion himself, 5. he pushes his sister away even though he loves her, 6. he has like no hobbies, 7. he’s scared of the notion of forgetting, even if he doesn’t know it himself, 8. the list goes on.

I wrote a little poem from him to his sister Celia. When he asks Celia why she is so beautiful, it is not because he loves her romantically. He’s simply amazed as to how she can live life so purely. I would be, too. Maybe.

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They come rushing back in a wave of pain,

Taught a long time ago to not show it.

Father commanded to never complain:

Even now his words affect me a bit;

But my responsibility comes first,

A job that will never be typical;

Sometimes, I think this family is cursed,

Yet, Sister, how are you so beautiful?

It is tough, when compassion seems to fail,

Especially when I try with my heart;

When people see me, they suddenly pale:

A splitting image with no brand new start;

As days pass, so do same daily routine,

So do I, you, no changes in between.

Truth, Falsehood: Story of one’s life

Again, another writing thing for the course. I’m somewhat impressed by it, actually. I’ll probably look back at this next year and cringe at my terrible writing. For now, though, I don’t mind being satisfied.

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She is short, yes. She is ethnically Chinese, yes. She has waterfall straight hair down to her ribcage, yes. She has hooded eyes with plain brown irises, yes. She has abnormally tiny hands and feet, yes. She is absolutely nothing special to look at.
She is Canadian through and through. Born and raised in British Columbia, she has journeyed through several phases of life.
As a preschooler, being the joyous, delightful child she was, her caretakers absolutely fawned over her. When afternoon naptime was announced daily, she would calmly amble over and doze off without any unnecessary complaints.
In kindergarten, she spun a full circle to become the class’ most disobedient, disliked brat. She strutted straight into a tight friendship of two girls to steal one half, leaving the other half lonely and companionless. Her teacher would write a brief journal entry every day. This would inform the girl’s mother of what new techniques she used that day to vex the other children.
By the end of grade one, the girl’s mother was thoroughly bent out of shape. Every week, the girl would refuse to do show and tell, even when her teacher and friends would courteously request her to present. Her mother would lock her in the laundry room for hours, desperately trying to get her to learn her lesson. She didn’t quit being her stubborn self.
Grade three came through, and she was less hardheaded. Oftentimes, she would find herself immersed in major conflicts between two of her closest friends. To avoid losing either one of them, she would recount falsehoods to one about how infuriating the other was.
The move to Vancouver from Richmond wasn’t terribly tough for her. Luckily, her teacher being new softened the blow of transferring elementary schools. On day one, she was welcomed with open arms by three fine girls, kind and good-natured. From that day on, the girl proceeded to become friends with everyone in the class and in the other French immersion class.
When grade seven graduation arrived, she knew she would likely never see her elementary school classmates again. Wanting to give everyone a parting gift, she made miniscule clay animals for each and every one of them. Throughout the year, however, she would constantly seek out attention. Many unnecessary emails and showy conversations occurred.
Entering high school, she was one of the most timid, most awkward students in her grade. People would try to get to know her; she would respond curtly and turn away. Yet, somehow, by the end of the year, she found herself immersed in a circle of friends.
Finally, grade eleven. The girl turned out to become immature, wildly spontaneous, unpredictably moody, oftentimes strangely quiet, and one of those people who can’t say “no” to any request. Her mother got mad for her lack of participation and enthusiasm in every activity she took on. Seeing only failure and loss, she found life much less exciting than she believed it to be.
There is so much in life she fears. The sight of the downturned lips, the fading twinkle in the disapproving eyes of those she has or will disappoint. The thought of dropping a note as she plays her saxophone. The image of a paper returned with a big, bold remark of “try again”. The idea of behaving the way she does at home in public and becoming the laughingstock of everyone’s day. The notion of not being of high enough standard for someone she looks up to.
Yet, somehow, she makes it through the day.
Through some unbelievable will, she drives her mind and body to stumble out of bed every morning, at 5:30. Exercise is a tedious task for her. Nonetheless, for the sake of herself, she does it.
School is a dreary place for her as well. Learning is of no use unless she has either taken an interest in the topic, or she believes it will be of use to her in the future. She does, however, look forward to seeing her role models—both of them.
Her first role model teaches her physics. He is likely the most passionate person she has and will ever meet. He can guzzle food like twenty pigs; strangely, he remains as fit and as lean as a bean. Many know him for his peculiar fondness for torturing poor cats in his physics problems, though in reality he adores cats. This girl was strongly inspired by this teacher to attempt to bring positivity and joy wherever she goes, and to develop a more powerful, more commanding sense of self-confidence.
Her second role model teaches her social studies. This teacher is one of the most well-rounded human beings she has encountered; he adores a wide range of video games, novels, movies and documentaries, sports, and many more activities. Like many, his sense of justice is incredibly potent. Unlike many, he genuinely acts upon his true sense of justice, acknowledging his biases and welcoming new outlooks, as unusual as they may be. This girl strives to be as compassionate but still as stern as him.
She has yet a long way to go.
Those two objectives may be the only two definite dreams she has for her hazy future. Naively, she is certain of her prospects in getting into a stable university and job, ignoring the harsh realities of the world. She sees herself potentially being a engineer, pragmatic and pioneering.
Why ever not? It combines many of her passions, both the newly developed ones and the lasting ones. Physics, her new favorite subject—kudos to her teacher—is a vital portion of engineering; the complex, staggering concepts never seem to fail her. It is also thanks to her interest in math that she succeeds so well in both physics and chemistry.
However, that isn’t to say she doesn’t enjoy the arts. Creating art is and will forever be one of her favorite pastimes. Ever since she was a youngster, she has loved drawing, painting, writing, singing and playing music. To this day, she sees the artwork hung up around her house and in the school gallery; tastes the flavor, the meat, of each word as she incises them deep within the pages of her notebook; hears the intense, poignant, beautifully constructed music of the school band; feels the audiences whooping and hollering, keenly cheering on the choir; proud that of the numerous activities she abandoned, she did not discard art.
This girl tries to gaze into the depths of the future, but sees nothing except mist. Which, in retrospect, is what many youth see. She may not have discovered who she truly is yet, but who ever declared that she needed to follow a certain procedure to learn about herself?
The present has no fog, no grayness. That’s where she lives.

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I turn away from the mirror. But—not before shooting one last, quick look at myself, and fixing a stray strand of black hair. Uniform ironed, hair tightly wound in a bun, my brick of a backpack sitting on my back, I head for school.
Ready, set, go.

Emotions, Humans: Too much sensation?

I wrote this for a writing course I willingly took, recently (in other words, today). 5 years ago, who would’ve ever even imagined that I would take a writing course voluntarily? I know, right? I’ve changed.

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I’ve always wondered if there could be one person in the world, one person of 7 billion, who was absolutely unemotional. If it was possible that someone felt no anger, no sympathy, no melancholia, no joy. If that someone could be a race of their own—a powerful, dominant force—because the lack of emotion is certainly an asset, is it not?

My mother constantly reminds me about my infancy tantrums. Eyes bright, nostalgic, she would copy the wild gestures I made as a baby, continually calling for “elephant ears.” To public eyes, and even to my own nowadays, I was a normal child. Crying, shrieking, moody, and greedy.

As I aged, I lived a sweet, innocent life of a typical kid. I didn’t ponder over life, or study the wonders of the world.

Prior to my grade 7 graduation, I molded miniscule clay animals for all my classmates as a good-bye gift. Day after day, I would sit at my desk, squishing together stubborn lumps of clay and prodding at dust that somehow glued itself onto the creatures.

Perhaps I could be classified as kind-hearted. At the time, I thought I was kind-hearted, because why else would I take the time out of my life to form 30 micro-animals for a company of children I would likely never see again?

Several years ago, I was working peacefully at school when I received a desperate phone call. It was my mother, speaking with voice clogged, stumbling over every second word. Apparently, my grandfather was dreadfully ill. We were to fly back to China immediately to watch over him.

Unlike many, I processed the information incredibly quickly. It glided into my ears and straight into the depths of my brain—yet, I found no appropriate response. 30 seconds went by as I racked my head for something, anything, to say that would be equally brokenhearted-sounding as well as comforting to my mother. Before I could, however, my mother spoke again. Undoubtedly, she took my silence for a moment of grief.

My grandfather passed away not long after we flew back to China.

When we first arrived in China, there was palpable mounting tension among all members of the family. People were in panic, in their high anxiety modes. I could understand, even though I felt nowhere near the same.

My mother immediately rushed in to see my grandfather. To me, he looked good as new, smiling his infectious smile while sprawled on that uncomfortable wheelchair of his. But I knew, as we all did, that the human body is a mysterious, unfair entity.

After a few days, people began to relax. I began to relax—only because my surroundings seemed to have lost the looming aura of dark, murky fear.

Thankfully, my grandfather died peacefully. I wasn’t with him during his last moments. Even if I were, I would likely have felt little sorrow, and would in all likelihood have shed no tears.

I felt, and still feel, enormous amounts of shame. Such a great quantity I feel, that it likely outweighs any amount of grief, dejection, or mourning I could have felt.

I still wonder about that sub-race of humans, that emotionless race. Living would become so much simpler if we were to not have these feelings. Humankind could accomplish so much more. Technology would advance—unimaginably. We could be limitless, set to rule for eternity.

Then again, comes the question of everyone’s day: what are humans if not creatures with emotion?

Every day, I face a number of humans who perform the simplest acts of affection; acts that I can’t make myself do because I don’t feel the same way. I watch as people express their frustration, some more explicitly than others, yet I don’t feel that way.

But I should. And maybe I do. What can I say; perhaps I am the same. Perhaps I feel the same, deep, deep down in my heart, where I can’t actually reach consciously. I mean, I did feel shame for not feeling sorrow.

Perhaps it is simply my desire to see an emotionless world, to see this race of humans, that clouds my perception of myself. See, I can feel desire.

Or can I really?