Memories

18 years is too much for me, so I'm going for the past 4 for now.
And still, still, so much of it is shrouded in literal clouds of obscure and forgotten embarrassment. Classes are like ghosts, seasons like wisps of ghosts.

Here's what I remember.
I remember when Mrs. Mularski hugged me when I brought her a goodbye present.
I remember Mr. Stanicek telling other people about that swan I drew for who knows what book.
I remember Funston showing Gonzo the portrait I drew five times because I was afraid that it didn't look enough like him.
I remember crying after my first killer set of footwork with Coach Ilian.
I remember that dad who asked Thomas why the girls had quadriceps like men.
I remember watching Manny's wicked backhand blast the bird across the net... and his kindness.
I remember training at Schaumburg with Helen, where she gave me a pair of socks because she was concerned about my ankle blisters.
I remember crying the shower after getting a D on an AP World test, and telling myself that my chances with Stanford were shot.
I remember being so in awe of Mr. Pearson's wisdom and personhood.
I remember when I saw a videotape of  my knobbly, nervous knees during Speech.
I remember feeling hot and stuffed and tired, staring dully at the MVC board, still strangely at peace after being heartbroken.
I remember singing with Stephanie during practice because we were numb with fatigue, and more than in one way.
I remember fighting with Lauren.
I remember the total aloofness and wildly inappropriate relaxing that took place in Physics C.
I remember Sunny, the Riverwalk, McDowell, but after that...
I remember hearing the song Forgiveness on the radio and crying on my knees, dripping cold blood from my nose and hot tears from my eyes.
I remember retreat. The good one.
I remember sitting down for 6 hours straight to paint those Canadian flowers. Its one of the only paintings I felt proud of for more than a couple hours.
I remember Shi Lao Shi telling me that I was made for fine arts.
I remember her telling every visitor, every mom, every friend, that I was made for art.
I remember never, ever even thinking about becoming an engineer.
I remember the first long conversation I had with Chelsea.
I remember the first long conversation I had Mr. Kim.
I remember pacing around a smoky 1 star hotel with Christine, shivering, apologizing, just talking.
I remember seeing Eliza's broad, confident brushstrokes.
I remember shopping with Ailynna and Christine, completely dried out, yet so fortunate.
I remember running outside every single day before practice with Christine, more often than not, feeling lighter than air.
I remember feeling like a pig, bloated, broken, hateful, inflating in front of the mirror.
I remember feeling my hip bones and watching my abs look so momentarily satisfactory.
I remember Vivian's grapes and almonds.
I remember winning the Huskie contest - another couple pieces of art that I'm actually unashamed to have displayed.
I remember watching Grace play piano.
I remember listening to Sebastian speak French, then Spanish, then "Wang Xiaoqi". (;))
I remember praying with Swo before games.
I remember seeing numbers on the scale that still, still terrify me.
I remember being so determinedly moved by Eden, Glee, Sam Tsui, Friends with Benefits (lol), Wolf of Wall Street, the Piano Guys, John Green, Hank Green, Ellen, Tyler Oakley...
...and How I Met Your Mother, ANTM, Masterchef finales...
...and those chats. Not just the ones that would overflow into my swollen eyes the next morning, but ones where I saw the reality of personhood.

You know, those moments of personhood? When you're overcome with your love for the people that cared about you before you cared about them? When people go out of their way to teach you League or to play Tetris with you? The people who chat you because they're worried about you, even if you're just going to ignore them?

I've forgotten so many of my mom's lectures, but I remember when we talked about marriage and boys and when she didn't rip me apart and instead told me that she regretted the example that my sister and I would have to live with.

Because high school wasn't about the numbers, as high as they were and as even higher they could have been. I like my SAT score, but I liked lunch with Eungee and David and Jessie so much more. I liked my 94 in AP World, but I like my 89.6 in ELA, falling gracefully with the people that have risen with me.

High school, and the rest of everything, is about finding the human in us. It was about smacking the racist prick inside of me upside the head. It was about finding that I'm afraid of demons, but not if I don't know they're there. It was about watching people feel love and feeling it myself, and not just for other people. It was about seeing passion flow and talent bleed from those performances. It was about feeling dead doing science, awake doing math, and alive doing art. It was about finally breathing wind instead of air and thinking, "This is what I was born to do." It was about getting angry and then thanking God because man man man man man man I am so overcome.

The Storm.

You know that moment when you're desperately afraid that the stabbing pain might never leave? There was nothing philosphical about that moment - just the physical, white hot searing in my gut that taunted with uncertainty. That uncertainty was what killed.

Its always assumed that people destroy people. Everyone tries so hard to war or to stop war because we think we can change each other.

And man, we do. I resent the dreams that I'm living that aren't mine. I hate that artificial injustice makes me want to yell and scream and cry and quit. I hate that a single relationship shut down so much. I miss church. I miss art. But all of this amendable.

What I find so much harder to sew together is myself. There's never a designated time that people set aside and tell you to pull out your loose threads. These scars weren't for nothing - there are all sorts of half-hearted stitches stuck here and there, but you know those incoherent days when you rip every single crusty scab open? You know that moment when you're desperately afraid that the stabbing pain might never leave?

When people ask me about college, I always say that I'm reluctant to go into a math major when I would throw myself whole-heartedly into architecture or graphic design or even fine arts. I always mention the financial burden, the iron fist my parents have over my funds. But actually, I can't wait. I can't wait... to let it go (forgive me). I can't wait to unleash the storm inside. I can't wait, truly, for those 100% peanut butter dinners, those gorgeous runs, those stupid parties.

And these hopes aren't part of any romantic notion. I know that my days will be filled with books and dread and fatigue, but I also know they'll be filled with 1 am coffee dates, hopeless love, and an unsatiable desire to learn and create and finally, finally be free. Let that Ithaca storm of burden and anger and wrath and hate and winter rage on. The cold never bothered me anyway.

Sunrise

I've been spending too many hours of my life watching Grace Helbig and resenting my own circumstances.
A handsome testament to why I wish I could run and swim and fly (also, inspiration): Connor Franta.
A quote from Chelsea:

"My life is a comedy of errors."

This past week, I have stayed up every single night to work on a mediocre project. The literal grappling between dreams and  nightmares is fought in my starving closet. It is but a scuffle in hectic glow, where blows make but a scratch in the predestined Cadillac. In fact, when I wake the next morning, taking up too much space, the weight of the bigger dents presses against me. I did get that string of B's and C's and D's. I was so vexed and begrudging and angry.

But there was not more than a moment when I regretted it. I have promised you and myself and the learing expectations of my parents - I will create and create and create and be part of a system that doesn't have OS as part of its label. When I was gone, I wasn't studying or TAing or delivering. I was making.

Have you ever fallen in love before? Have you ever held a person's hand, knowing that when you let go, it will be the last time you can acknowledge your crazy, irrational love for them? Have you ever seen the sparkling sunset, even right through your windows, and smiled at a completely new day, new life? Have you ever watched How I Met Your Mother Season 9 Episode 17?

Have you felt a love that extends far beyond those of romantic relationships? Have you felt an infinitely grateful affection for the people from who you can sit an inch away and feel no spark but that of friendship? Have you ever come out of a string of intense competition and felt the grip of community and union in our years together?

There were several reasons I decided to say the three hardest, most out-of-context sentences I've said in my life. All of them can be paraphrased from quotations that other people have already made... on Tumblr:
1. I cannot stand small talk. Don't you ever sense the elephant in the room, shitting all over everything? Aren't you ever just dying to say, "Hey, do you ever feel like jumping off a bridge?" or "Do you feel an emptiness inside your chest at night that is going to swallow you?" I thought he understood, but we were just playing at cocktail parties.
2. Why do you hate silence? It is so hard to find, but its power is so great. In its presence, we find something that's beyond the moment, a place that restores and satiates our hunger for acceptance. Silence is not unspoken criticism or hard withdrawal. It never had to be broken.
3. Screw our collection of dismantled almosts. What almost? What was not cowardice and bashfulness, reservedness and caution? What was not every single day, when I retreat to myself, shaking my head to the dissonance of my thoughts and my actions? To the rest of my relationships to the rest of my people, we will be far more than almost.
4. I thought about the people that I love. I thought about the people that I want to love. They are their words and thoughts and hearts. I'm not going to lie - after spending so much time immersed in Chelsea's blog, I have developed a low tolerance for falling in love with fictional characters. I mean, they're on YouTube - but even the real people... it is their exposed soul that I've learned to appreciate.
5. And one last thing, also stolen from the other side of reason. I do not need someone to complete me. I offered for us to walk, if you would like, side by side, to whatever is coming next. In a couple little ways, we did, but this was no infinity. There are things that I remember now, like the day I read your poetry and our first League matches, but I'm absolutely certain that I will forget everything about you. First it will be those math problems, then our tests, then our classes. After that, it will be your stubble, your hands, your hair, your face. And because we didn't share that primal, honest, true touch that extends far past the reaches of science, I will eventually forget your name.

I think, for now, my time entangling with romance is over. For so much afflicted and inflicted pain, for such perpetual disgust, for the remnants of bitterness and anger that ring in my head day after day, I don't really mind. I know that when I ask you about your life again, when I ask about your girls or your marathon training or your games or your gym routine, not even a part of your responses will matter. We will be strangers, again. I'm never going to stay and wait for my heart to be ripped out, even if its the courageous thing to do. I'm going to turn around, walk away, and start anew.