Dial Tone

I'm feeling melancholic again, world. Just generally depressive without any real trigger. Rather I think it's been a trend in my emotions that have been imperceptibly taking on a negative tangent slope. It's been a series of constant insecurity, guilt, anguish, passivity, anxiety, and loneliness. Anxiety about how much financial burden I'm placing on my family in my international expenditure. Guilt in spending a term abroad when it really doesn't apply to my degree and seems quite frivolous, especially because I'm not enjoying it as I should. Anguish and disappointment at my academic trajectory, which seems at this point to be irreparably damaged. Insecurity regarding where the hell my life is taking me now because all I seem to have are impressive words, empty promises, unsubstantial dreams, and a recurring pattern. Loneliness despite the presence of people, none of whom I really feel like I want to reach out to. There is not a single person in this world that I feel as though I can talk to. I feel as though I am just a body in this world that is lacking a fundamental driving force. All the gears and machinations are at work, but to what they are working towards is beyond me. It all seems quite pointless and I don't want to continue.

Life is nothing but a string of disappointments and I have no motivation to try and struggle and work fruitlessly towards something that inevitably will escape me. Nothing is guaranteed, despite my best efforts. There is nothing I find gratifying anymore and if I honestly have nothing that I am looking forward to down the line, why am I wasting the breath that could serve someone who does? I feel like more and more of me is being chipped away each moment that passes. All that I seem to latch onto ends up crumbling away and I end up in free fall again. No interest, no person, no dream seems enough to keep me level. It's gotten to the point where I cannot express fundamental human functions of empathy and compassion to those closest to me. Even towards a friend who is really struggling with her problems as of now. I can't bring myself to comfort and cajole. It's as though I've forgotten how to. My head is in this perpetual mental state of television static and all that I am inputting from the world is a dial tone.

Second Generation

Recently, my mind has been mulling over the idea of what it means to be American. It was only in the last year that I have been officially deemed a US citizen and can truly be called Korean-American. All my life, I had only really referred to myself as Korean, because as far as I was concerned my blood, heritage, and family were so. But being here in the UK where being American is also associated with the title of 'foreign' has left me in conflict with how I identify. In the US, I always felt the scrutiny of other Americans as being 'foreign', regardless of whether they were white, Hispanic, or otherwise. I always felt as though I needed to make some display of my 'American-ness' through my behavior and speech in order to prove that I had lived in this country for as long as I can remember. I felt as though I had to show strangers through my ability to speak clear and articulate American English that I too was one of them, an American. But regardless of how American I wanted to be, I could never really called myself American. All my life, people would ask me where I was from, with the clear intent of trying to pin what kind of Asian I was. Understanding that, I would always answer that I was Korean, only to be met with the dreaded question of "Well, North or South?". When I was younger and had no real idea of what that distinction meant for the history of my ancestors and my people, I would get offended and quickly respond "South" with the intent of showing that at least I was a better Asian between the two. Like it was somehow shameful to be identified as North Korean. I look back at my younger self and regret how little value and confidence I had in my cultural identity. If people ask me that question now, my response is a long winded one. I tell them that I do not see the political drawn line that divides people with a common history, language, and culture. That I am blind to that distinction which I find has diminished the grave injustice that Koreans endured at the hands of nations that played a game of hegemony as it ripped families and a common nationality apart. I know that other friends of min, who have been raised in a similar situation to mine, have varying responses to the question "Where are you from?" that range from a forthright dismissal of their ethnicity to solely a wholehearted embrace of it. Now being naturalized and in the UK, I find that I don't know how I want to answer that question anymore.

Here, it's almost too easy for people to figure out that you're American. All you have to do is say hello and you're quickly met with the response, "Oh, you're American.". A phrase which is said with varying inflections of disdain and intrigue. All my life, I had never been identified by another person as being American at first blush, so I was taken aback at first. I have to this point just accepted that label because questions quickly follow it. "Where in the US?" is an inevitable response, even though it seems as though no one who asks that question really has any idea of US geography and thus the answer has no real significance. The conversation that proceeds after greeting someone for the first time here is painfully predictable. After these questions and my response of "Colorado", I get some knowing looks and then the cringe-worthy question of "So pot, amiright?". But that's getting off track. People that I have run into during my time abroad, just accept that being American is this innate way of being and disregard the way that a person looks to identify someone as such. This occurred to me as sort of novel, despite the fact that we have all learned in school that the US is the melting-pot of ethnicities. It was only in being somewhere other than the United States, that I finally felt as though I could identify as American. But in doing so I feel as though I am betraying an essential part of who I truly am by failing to acknowledge that I am more than American. Eighteen years of being Korean and only identifying as Korean only to all of a sudden lose that here has made me acutely aware that what I say in response to the question is more important that I realized. 

My parents had always told me that I was not American and that I should never act as though I was. I was taught Korean consistently as a child because my parents believed that one should know their own mother-tongue. Sleepovers were strictly taboo in my household because it was culturally inappropriate and Korean food was all that was ever really made at home. I never truly appreciated what my parents gave me when they forced me to learn to be Korean. They gave me an identity that comes with a rich history, culture, and heritage and they taught me that it is tragic to be Korean only by title. They knew that growing up in the US would automatically instill me with an American identity. They made sure that I realized that being completely ethnically Korean would always make it so that I was different from White Americans. And instead of teaching me to feel deficient in that way, they filled the separation with a robust Korean identity that makes me feel as though I have even more to myself. I've now decided that if someone were to ask me that question again, I would know how to respond. 

I'm Korean-American and I don't need to justify myself to you.

Bright Lights Bigger City

So if you know me, you know that I'm not versed in urban, but I aspire to be. I've fallen in love with places like New York City and I'm committed to the idea of living there someday. With Edinburgh, its the same story. At first I really had my reservations because I felt like the city was a bit cold in more ways than one. I know that's true of city life in general, but there was just this kind of subtle aloofness that rubbed me the wrong way initially. But with more time that I spend here and the more people I connect with, I feel almost comfortable. I learned a lot about myself in the short span of time that I've been here or at least reaffirmed what I already subconsciously understood. I'm not big on being the kind of person who goes out and parties at clubs. I don't really appreciate being dumped amongst random inebriated people without a little backup. I'd much rather meet people in a less forced situation that's more laid back and open.

Don't get me wrong, I've met some nice people this way and I appreciate the assistance broadening my social sphere, but I don't really know if I need it. There are somewhere around 15 people that came across the pond on the same study abroad program and I'm happy to say that I've clicked with a few of them. My equestrian lover (meaning that she loves horses, actually she loves all animals) is such a bubbly, friendly, loving person (a great complement to my sarcastic, brash self). I've already made plans to go to Paris with a dude that is pretty laid back and definitely on his organization shit. I have yet to really get to know the rest of the crew, but I really hope to. The seniors on the trip are like the cool kids on the block and kinda do their own thing, which makes me feel like the younger sibling that wants to be with it. I secretly wish that I was one of them because they're just really smart, insightful people.

One of my closest friends from college who's on this trip with me lives on virtually the opposite of town (I would have to walk a fucking hour to get there) in a building that's basically a repurposed hostel from what it looks like. It looks like it was built at least 50 years ago, but I could care less that they randomly have sinks and questionable smells in their rooms. They have the most friendly, inclusive, outgoing, happy, jazzed people that I have ever met. I decided to come visit him a few days ago and I am thoroughly in love. It wasn't quite a Dartmouth freshman welcome, but it was pretty close. I met this amazing, spunky chick who's from Connecticut and she's just the most hilarious and lovable person and this lovable Scot named Scott who I just adore. The whole building is just a fantastic community, which is basically what compelled me to gush in the written word. The first time I met them, they fed me, went to a bullshit creative writing (which turned out to be fantasy writing) meeting, and got KFC with me. Today I returned for more of the much needed affection and ended up watching part of a lesbian film in their common room with a handful of other people, ate some more, got groceries at Sainsbury's, and decided to make cupcakes at 9pm. I honestly have never laughed as much as I have with these people and it makes me sad to know that our love is on a timer. I'm so glad I found people here that I absolutely am fond of because I was feeling a little lonely here. Having meals alone is honestly so depressing so preparing meals for each other is seriously uplifting. I think we have plans to travel to Florence potentially, which honestly would just be incredible, but even just sitting around and talking is amazing. Fingers crossed that we stay friends even when I go back to the Big Green.

I'm Not Built for This

So I finally have reached my destination of the beautiful Edinburgh. It was not at all smooth sailing that started when I realized I was fucked by how heavy my bags were. I decided to check one 50 pound bag and carry a duffel stuffed with the rest of my things in addition to a backpack that was way heavier than its contents would suggest. So with my backpack on and this 30 pound monstrosity over one shoulder and the other arm dragging about my luggage bag, it was just peachy. Basically the security checkpoint was hell since I was standing in line for a good chunk on time, switching shoulders and forearms to even out the pain of the straps cutting into my flesh. All of this exertion so sudden after my summer of lethargy made me sweat, literally and metaphorically. I was clammy and absolutely disgusting and that was not the end of my problems.

I thought I had run into some luck when it turned out that another girl from my study abroad program was on my flight to Edinburgh. We were able to share a cab and she left on the first stop. The normally scintillating human that I am only then realized that I was totally screwed since I only had a general idea and title of the place to which I was headed and not an exact address. Flustered when the cabbie stopped in the general vicinity of the place I was headed, I told him to go ahead and leave, even though I had no clue where the hell I was. The whole street shared the title that I thought was the name of a specific location. So I spent another good chunk of time walking up and down the street with all of my crap, while construction workers just gave me bemused looks. The normal response to a situation like this would be to call or text someone or just look up the address, but did I mention that my phone had zero service? My Hail-Mary was to connect to spare Wi-Fi, paying 8 pounds in the process, to no avail. Some guy then walks up to me, a person in obvious distress, and asks if I'm a student looking to check into housing for the university. I WAS ON THE WRONG FUCKING SIDE OF THE STREET. So thoroughly embarrassed I followed him and finally got to my room.

But no, that's not all. I wanted to pick up a few living necessities from the nearby convenience store. All was fine. I went to check out and luckily there was a woman I could follow by example. The plastic bags are not dispersed to all self-checkout stations and are rather in one place. Thanks to the lady, I did not have to panic for too long before finding them. So I get all situated and scan my items. Except that every minute it stops and tells me to go get someone to help me. I'm the only person who gets stalled over and over again and I swear the clerk can tell that I'm a daft American. After scanning my card the screen freezes on the same notification to get the clerk and there's some dispute about whether or not the card went through or not. Eventually the guy just gives up and tell me to get out of his sight (not really) and I book it out of there.

After having been through all of that I'm pretty sure I stink, since stress and bodily functions are conducive to such things. So I get back to my room and I decide to take a shower since I already feel gross from a day of traveling. My room has its own complete bathroom and everything is new and fancy. The lights are turned on by a motion sensor and the shower has two knobs for water pressure and temperature. Pretty straightforward. So I turn on one knob for the pressure and when I turn the temperature knob the water stops. So I try again. And again. And the water just is fucking frigid or not there at all. There are these weird buttons on the knobs that dictate how far the knobs can turn so I fiddle with those for a while and twenty minutes of this tom-foolery, I'm pretty sure I'm a moron. I mean the red arrows are obviously a universal symbol of "turn this way for hot water", right? Eventually I give up and end up taking a frigid shower. Thirty seconds in and cursing the damn shower, the lights turn off. So I reach out of the shower and wave my hands around until they come back on. Thirty second later, they turn off again. And once more. At this point, I'm done with this shit so I just suck it up and take a frigid shower in the dark. Fantastic.

If this isn't a sign that I'm screwed for the rest of this trip, I don't know what is.

Wanderlust

Well after about three months of a grueling summer, my time is almost up. The school year could not come soon enough. While managing to resist the temptation of slowly letting myself develop bed sores from the lifestyle of an invalid, I haven't prevented my brain from decomposing into a gruesome puree of wasted white and gray matter. Mind you, I started several bouts of mental stimulus through reading and flirting with musical pursuits. Hopping from Slaughterhouse Five to Jane Eyre back to Vonnegut with Bluebeard. Tickling those ivories by attempting to play Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu and Andante in E-flat major from Nocturne. Attempting to learn to vocally harmonize by pulling apart a capella recordings. Reclaiming past knowledge of Python though online tutorials. I've given my fair share of starts to expanding my compendium of skills with little to no avail. My mind is too set on the track years down the road that fumbling with rudimentary steps is frustrating and aggravating. I can picture myself running my hands across the keys with the smoothness and grace that can only be imitated with satin. Yet when it comes to the 3:4 polyrhythm of Chopin's great work, I just want to bash my fingers with the piano cover. I feel utterly inadequate in the state that I am in. Neither an expert in literature or an accomplished anything for that matter. Just so incredibly average.

And I can rationally appease myself momentarily by calculating the amount of time and commitment that it takes to become a master of something. But I want to be everything all at once and have little patience because the reality is that I would be lucky to be that skilled in just one of those many things. So I'm left with this feeling of anguish in that I don't have enough time on this earth and I let myself rot instead. I count time until I can be in a place that I feel as though sparks that light in me and makes me pursue something once again. I'm waiting now with hopes that I'll find some traction and then momentum to set me on my way again. I feel as though this time I'm set in such a way that with the right conditions I can propel myself with greater velocity so that my trajectory leads me to another set of conditions for propulsion. I'm to go to Scotland in a week to study philosophy and I just hope that travel in a brave new world can cure me of my wanderlust for places where I can be what I imagine. So I guess from now on I'll write as though I'm performing an experiment on myself to see if life abroad with unforeseen possibilities can make me better equipped to settle in my own skin as I am.

Expecting More

Being doubly disadvantaged in this country as a minority, you would think that I would have seen enough to not be disappointed when stereotypes and racism crop up around me. Maybe it's my upbeat demeanor that gets the better of me and I get let down. Recently I've been watching my fair share of television to a horrifying degree and I cannot express my frustration enough at the portrayal of women and Asians within US media. Being a misrepresented racial minority in the US is one thing but to be so poorly portrayed as a female in Korean media leads me to believe that I will never get the best of both worlds. I first ran into my first conflict of interests when I got into Buffy. Classically known as a very female empowering series for the time, Buffy is one of my favorite characters of all time. I was ready to gladly dive into the Whedonverse. Yet upon further research of Joss Whedon and his work with the show Firefly, my feminist euphoria was dampened. It doesn't take much critical analysis to see that Firefly is guilty of racism against Asians much to my chagrin. So I tried again to find a show that I could gladly pin my badge of approval on. Bones was next on the list. While I love that Brennan is an incredibly sharp and assertive female lead, the show starts off with the portrayal of career women as being detached and unable to form families. While the show allows her character to grow out of this stereotypical mold, I still ran into the problem of having almost no Asian representation in the show. For a show so centered around academia and the sciences, I find it odd given that statistically no Asian individuals are portrayed in any circumstance. I find the same difficulty with Criminal Minds where there is racism in that there is no representation whatsoever. The one episode where there is an Asian unsub in Season 10 (it took them 10 seasons to get here), they go for the very tired stereotype of the strict Asian parent that just got me worn out. I have trouble admitting that American cinema and television has made any real strides in progressive depictions of Asians, specifically Asian women. The fetishism of Asian women as Oriental, submissive dolls is seen in older films is still seen in movies today. It may not be as blatantly present as before, but subtly thrown in as background noise. I watched to movie The Other Woman recently, which was problematic on the feminist front for various reasons, but I was outraged and disgusted when there was this scene where they are in some sort of Oriental restaurant where the schtick is that the guests use no hands. Rather, Asian women are gratuitously paraded as servants that service them by feeding them and sensually massaging their guests. I baffles me that this kind of scene is just thrown in.

So for a very brief period of time I turned to Korean media to see if I could get away from this kind of fetishism. But alas, I was wrong. Korean television at its core is built off of it's celebrities and Korean dramas popularity is fed off of star power. Thus the beauty ideals are what dictate which actors and celebrities are the most beloved. The women are expected to be extremely thin, pale, and youthful. I recently watched this show where the whole premise is that this forty year old woman is unhappy because she is unmarried and desperately attempts to maintain her youth so that she is an eligible bachelorette. The fixation of all the women in the show on marriage as the ultimate end that determines self worth was despicable to me and I couldn't believe that television today still maintained such antiquated values. But television also reflects the values of the society at the time, so I'm sad to say that those values are still very much at play in Korea. Another aspect of the drama that I found so uncomfortable was the fact that the women were portrayed in this juvenile, submissive sort of manner that is called aegyo. Basically the women are supposed to be cutesy and coy in a way that diminishes their credibility. The women aren't depicted as serious individuals and more often than not they are preoccupied with the men in their lives. The part of me who strives to be a commanding, confident woman cringes at these two dimensional women that have no real substance or character.

So I feel as though I am pitted against the two sides of myself. I can't help but feel embarrassed by how women are portrayed in Korean media because I feel the critique of Occidental feminists. On the other hand, the depiction of Asians in American media seriously offends me. I want to embrace my culture and my gender, but I feel as though I'm forced to sacrifice one or the other to some degree. Is it too much to ask for a well-rounded, well-established, well-portrayed Asian woman in media? I guess I'll take my chances with Elementary and fingers crossed that Lucy Liu can do us justice.

Stagnant Waters

When water is stagnant, in a crystal class or a reflective pond, it's not really at a stand still. The molecules still flow over each other but in a manner that is imperceptible to the human eye. Absolutely still, yet innately motile. Is that what happens to me too when I come to a full halt in my life? Going absolutely nowhere in the eyes of an outsider, but internally constantly changing? A cryogenic homo sapien. A television screen permanently paused on a dismal frame by child who has been called away by his mother never to return. The hourglass of my life is full of not sand but of decaying flesh. Slowly breaking down and emitting a putrescent fume that poisons those near me and depositing a foul sludge into the chamber below. Producing acid that eats away the structural timekeeper itself. The only force present is that of gravity.

Angoisse

So my recent angoisse has proven to be a consequence of my inclination for dramatic flair. I scrutinize situations to the extent that I no longer see the variegated sunflowers on the canvas and instead see the faint depressions that every brush stroke left behind on the oil paint. I am the one guilty of forcing superfluous meaning in the words of every written world. When my shampoo bottle instructs me to rinse and repeat, is that just a grand allegory for how we forget and wash away our morbid history only to be doomed to repeat our egregious errors? But with all of that said, the point is that I tend to react violently to situations that probably wouldn't evoke the same response to a less volatile, normal human being. I am cesium coming into contact with water, while most people are more on par with lithium. So now that I have some temporal distance between the myself and The Week of Horrifically Embarrassing Insecurity, I feel at ease. Most of that comfort is probably due to the fact that things ended up working out more or less. My personal life has taken the golden brick road to happiness and being utterly twitterpated. Part of me despises myself for being so terribly human in this regard and part of me does not give a rats ass about what jaded me thinks. That Kelly Clarkson song really speaks to my soul right now. I don't comprehend how I could be so incredibly preoccupied with another human. I used to be the one that would be highly judgmental and bitingly spiteful of people who were so invested in their significant other. Now that I'm on the B-side of things, I find myself to be cliche and vomit-worthy. It's ridiculous how much I care because it's not like we are anything specific. We both copped out of deciding where to take things and its as though we were practicing being politicians given how ambiguously and tangentially we spoke about things. I'm anxious and scared of how things will play out especially with the time ticking away till the term is over and summer is officially here. It also doesn't help that I'm abroad in the fall, so that would be a composite of about seven months of not seeing each other's dumb faces. My anxiety stems from the fact that I know that I'm already invested way to much and it would take more than government money to bail me out like it did for GM. I'm too attached and it's going to be like a persistent tooth-ache to not see him. So I guess I didn't really move past my angst. I just translated it.

The Deterrent

I'm not sure why this happens again and again, but once again I have made myself subject to cardiac pain. You think I'd have learned by now to be more cautious, more prudent, more sensible, or at least more skeptical. But I guess I've genetically inherited my father's romanticism, which includes but is not limited to a hundred red roses and the whole nine yards. Damn. As much as I pride myself on being a strong, independent individual, I find that I leave myself wide open for others to play with throwing knives aimed at my heart. And to no degree are these marksmen ill-intentioned. They just inadvertently seem to be blind and deaf to my futile attempts to talk them down from the violent sport. And much to my chagrin, my first instinct is to not find fault with the cloth that covers their eyes or the cotton stuffed in their ears, but rather to blame myself for not shouting in more earnest or for allowing myself to take the post as a target in the first place. I know better than to find myself culpable for the feelings of someone else. I do. Sadly, I am not predominantly a rational animal. I'm a sentient being, one who feels more strongly than she can rationalize.

So I've taken all of this grief, the disappointment, the pain and turned it into the most vile poison. Hate. Not for the sport, not for the marksmen. For myself. I feel ugly as though I've suddenly seen that I am not the fair lady but rather the wizened hag in the optical illusion. As though all this time, I've eluded myself to see the beauty when everyone else saw the crudeness. So I've taken up the mirror that magnified the surface of my skin twenty fold and have started picking. And picking. And picking. I've gazed into the pores of my skin, the dark pits of disdain, and at the fine hairs of my limbs that appear as insidious tendrils of shame. I prod and jab at my figure composed of infantile flesh and grimace. But all this hate directed outwards cannot hold a candle to the hate I feel for the very blood that runs through my veins and the very anatomy that holds me up to be the homo sapien that I am. Everything that is of my essence is wretched. Everything I touch seems to suddenly take life and run away from the thing it last touched. I cannot make anyone stay. Not my father and not him.

Distracted

I have returned to throwing my narrative voice out into the darkness that is the interwebs. Not because I have anything particularly insightful to share or because I have reached a certain milestone in my torrid life story, but because I am devastatingly distracted by my own thoughts. Or maybe the prospect of writing a comparative paper on Sartre and Merleau-Ponty on a Saturday night is not as appealing as it sounds (crazy, right?) and thus the return to the written word for personal gratification. I feel antsy. What a stellar word that feels exactly like what it means. I've recently had some developments on one of my friendships that is causing me to become this crazed person that I don't particularly love. It's as though I have undergone what I like to call the 'Phineas Gage'. If you don't know the epic, let me impart my wisdom. So one fated day, Gage was working his dull 9 to 5 job at the railroad. He and his fellow compatriots were working with some heavy duty explosives and dear old Phineas just got too close for comfort. One of the packages suffered what many old, decrepit men suffer when they get too excited by this month's Cosmopolitan. Caught in the crossfire, Gage got a good healthy dose of railroad spike right in his frontal cortex and was never the same ever again (namely he became a total asshole). To this day, pitiable psychology and neuroscience students are told this cautionary tale again and again by their less than humorous instructors. Of course, like all of my tall-tales this one is to be understood with a grain of salt because I am not a journalist and I am not here to deliver the cold hard facts (thought I'm not so sure if journalism, namely FOX, does this). So thus returning back to the original narrative, I have caught the 'Phineas Gage' because I too have a proverbial railroad spike in my frontal cortex. I have this infuriating presence at the forefront of all of my present thoughts that refuses to be dislodged.  It's making me a psychopath. As most of my preoccupations have historically been about people, my present one is no different. I will hereby refer to this individual as 'Railroad Spike'.

So 'Railroad Spike' came into my life at the beginning of my time of higher education and not by typical means. Like your long-lost cousin, thrice removed, my degrees of relation to him are equally as convoluted. Yet he is one of my closest friends on this now greening campus. At first, I never thought much about the nature of our relationship, though I did have moments of infatuation that were squashed when he and another friend of similar stature to him started acting like the most nauseating couple. Then randomly one day he invited me to an event, mind you this was a proposition to attend a college version of a "fourth-graders birthday party", and the ball-game changed. Maybe it was his Batman onesie or the epic, bacchanalian game of WWII, but I woke up the next morning dehydrated and a little dazed. I wasn't sure what to make of his toddler-Batman to my punk-chic elementary school diva wearing a shirt that said #bored. But finals week rolled around and made us closer through mutual suffering and late nights at the library. Then we started hanging out more and our mutual interest in Game of Thrones and the like became reasons for more kibitzing. Last night and today really proved that my feelings towards him were more than platonic. A weird, lurid dream and watching him kill it on stage (he's in a band, no big deal, save for the fact that I find that extremely attractive) have made me insanely hot under the collar and preoccupied. But the thing with this moron is that he will never make the first move and I have no indication to encourage one from me. So thus I am a frustrated mess (or maybe I just need to express my promiscuity actively).

Writing this has actually been pretty therapeutic, so maybe I can hold out and be patient for a bit longer. That way I don't spontaneously combust and react violently like Coke and Mentos and scare him back to California.

Coming Back From Hiatus

Hello sweet world, it has been a while. I would like to say that I have some grand excuse for being deficient in the publicized written word (such as trekking a remote desert area in search of some great personal discovery), but alas, I have no true excuse. My apologies. Though I guess starting collegiate education does take up a significant amount of one's daily life, so perhaps that can be my redemption (plus college isn't that much different from a desert expedition). But honestly, writing hasn't been on my radar because I haven't really felt compelled to write. Until today. I've been so swept up in the maelstrom that is university life that my chief concern has been to actually live day to day experiencing maximally. But I feel as though I have had my fill for now.

Have I changed much? I would like to think so. My compatriots and kindred spirits on this plane of "higher education" have been of a wide variety. I have run into truly incredible people that I hope with everything that I've got stay with me even when I leave this place. These people are strong and resilient, worldly and accepting, kind and loving, and all around spectacular and phenomenal human beings. I've had the great privilege of undergoing the tutelage of a great professor who has sparked a passion for philosophy in me and I can't even articulate how much I admire and am completely enamored with this instructor. Learning has never been so evocative and enthralling for me. I've become relaxed about my future and I feel so liberated because I don't feel as though I have to chain myself to some designated path. Though I've always seen scalpels and red in my future, I'm not afraid to let that mental image go if I don't feel love for it anymore.

Maybe this is all a transient illusion, but I've never been so in love with life as I do now. I feel invincible and unstoppable. I'm going to keep channeling my inner Beauvoir, Plath, and Curie to become as incredible as I can conceive of myself becoming.