Where the Heart Is

I may or may not have already titled a post like this. It is because I have read a book of the same title, and therefore I do not remember if I have taken the name unwittingly. But it came to mind again, so I think I should talk about my heart, if not entirely, then only partially (because my writing is always rather drained when I've just finished a college essay).

. . .

This is about college. Not about where I want to go, not this time, but why. There is a practical part of me that says, "I want to accomplish something in my life," and I am listening to that part right now. There are doubts, of course—I have talked about them semi-extensively with Yuma, about the sheer random nature of my field of preference, and whether I can always find the right answers—but those are still practical doubts. Doubts stemmed from questions such as, "Will I be successful?" or "Will this work?" The practical side is my source of motivation, why I even bother doing my homework, or sitting through my French class (a language I love, but a teaching method and class enthusiasm—or lack thereof—I don't).

Then there is the wistful part, the part that says, "I've only got one life to live, I might as well." This is echoed in my stories—the constant travelling, the myriad of decisions, the utter lack of concern for "opportunity costs" and "marginal benefits." It is the side that remembers alt-127 is ⌂, and alt-15 is ☼. The voice that whispers, "It's now, or never," and then I find myself half out my bedroom window, the screen thrown up, staring at the blinking night sky with my foot dangling a foot above the ground.

So close. Yet not close enough.

I could go to college. In fact, it is to be expected. What I do out of college, that is a little more hazy, but everyone from my parents to my aunts-twice-removed think they know the answer. It is a systematic answer, in a systematic world, where one day's furious pencil-scratching can mean a future of joy (or misery). It is even formulated by systematic ways—reliability, profits, incentives, then last of all or not at all personal enjoyment.

And yes, this is also in part a rant against my cousin, who took art classes so he could get into college because they lower requirements for art schools, when my parents always made up some excuse or another. But it is not entirely that, and especially not because now he is not doing anything art-related.

It is mostly about my reasons for going to college. A good education. With tens of thousands of dollars, I would hope it's a good education. A chance to expand my horizons, so to speak, a chance to do the really exciting things that really make a difference, and not just high school textbook material.

Yes, the practical side wants that, craves that, is excited to go to school because of that (and because of the people, but that is the wistful side). It is content with the way things are going right now—it is not saying, "Don't plant your roots too deep, because there are still so many more places to be."

That voice is haunting me. Not a lot, because it is not extremely big and it is spread over many, many topics, but it lingers. It makes me wonder if this is really what I want—and sometimes, it makes me wonder if I am missing something I would rather have so much more.

A very Nick thing to think, but I have not edited and shared that story yet, so that allusion does not make sense.

. . .

This is about the past. I do not have a very long past—seventeen years, more or more. But I have discovered that the past comes swinging by, in odd yet rhythmic intervals, especially when the mood is not proper. Happy pasts in sombre moments. Sad pasts in celebrations.

Then again, I may as well name names. Here is to Dray, whom I am thinking about as I ponder the situation. Dray who drudged up a past I was not yet ready to confront, who still visits at times, such as now, and disappears at others. And here, I may confess, he is but a figment of my imagination, and it would be half-truth and half-lie, because he exists, yes, but not in the way I refer to him.

He has either created, or is the product of (or both), my series of mishaps with things that concern the heart. The wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong reasons. And the regrets, although they fade with time, and the stupid mistakes, those stay for longer. Maybe it's because I never learn from my mistakes. Maybe it's because I haven't found the rights yet.

Maybe it is all unpredictable, with a confidence interval of 50% and a confidence level that is not really confident anymore. Maybe I am smiling too much and thinking too little, or vice versa, or both.

Ah, my smiles. I don't ever smile when I'm really happy—I have laughter for that. So smiles are superfluous, usually reserved for moments that are not happy but supposed to be happy. A little masquerade I hold, although some days are more real than others.

So I try not to smile, this strange philosophy of mine. But I break it all the time, to be polite, or to put up a pretense, or to just react to the past.

Because reacting to the past is the only time I would ever smile and be happy. Not really, extremely, absolutely happy, but merely happy. And perhaps it makes little sense, but it is the truth, and the truth rarely makes sense.

. . .

This is about love. The other oft-lamented less-oft-well-lamented topic, aside from death. And once again I could name names but that would be too ridiculous, the pace I am naming and labeling him. So I will talk about the general, perhaps, and then maybe the details if I am so obliged.

The first character I'd ever come up with (that fitted the scene, of course) was Reine. It means "queen" in French, "la reine." But Reine is a prince, haphazardly turned king, with none of the composure or cunning, either or, that would make him a good king. He was subject to whims, fits of rage, an over-simplistic view of things, and most of all disconnected to the outside world. He does not care for being a king, and thus came the second character, Keno, who was, if not the most benevolent, then at least smart enough to prevent a coup d'etat. Smart and strong-willed. His younger brothers (twins, so there was no third and fourth, only next) left all the politics to him. Keit and Fate.

I mention this because I wanted to talk about Keit. The once-upon-a-time-was-a-wide-eyed-boy who got lost in the marketplace and reached out to a small, cold hand. Who gazed into a pair of blood-red eyes and set forth a tragedy that left so many people in despair. Who kept on searching for "the one who got away," and never realized he was intent on a memory, not a physical person.

But of course, this is a tragedy because I write awful comedies. With seriousness comes a lack of need for wit and dry humor, and so makes it easier to write. So I mention Keit not for his tragic elements, but for his ability to affect so many lives with only one gesture. A millisecond of his life in exchange for entire souls. That, I think, is the true power of love. The dangerous power that is not often praised because it does not always end happily, but is there, nonetheless.

That is the closest I'll come to the general without sounding trite. There are better words, I know, but I don't know exactly what they are yet. So onto the details.

With every event there is a "How did that ever happen?" moment. How it began. The roots. The date does not really matter, although I suppose it did, since it was a Thursday. That was how it sort of began, but not entirely. It does not account for the precise seating arrangement on that day, or my meeting in the social studies department, or my sudden urge to risk being late for an important affair just to call out his name. That was how it began, I think, but it was also the Thursday, or the calc test assigned prior, or, if you put it that way, arena on that fateful June day.

Or, perhaps, the day I decided I would drop my art class for biology. And was told I could not have middle east during my art class period. That could also have been it, but I think that is pushing it, stretching the connections until they become frayed strings.

But the thing about these moments is that you don't have prior knowledge to what will come out of them. Keit never knew grabbing onto that hand would result in a world split into two. I could quote The God of Small Things, and say that Estha never knew being prepared would lead to his family torn apart, or, for that matter, going to see a musical would lead to his obsession with being prepared. And I don't know what will come out of this, but I am also happy not knowing. Happy to keep it a suspense until the moment comes.

Because it is just as well for the journey, not for the destination.

. . .

This is about the future.

But I have nothing to say about the future, because it is something to be experienced, not said. So long as I have hope, I think there will be a future. A place to store my anticipations and excitements and all of the good things that are not happening right now, and maybe even some of the good things that are happening right now.

I am an optimist, yes. But more so, I am a believer of the present.