Smart and Hardworking

A pattern. That’s where this all starts. I noticed this first when my cousin started doing exceedingly well in school. Oh, he never had before—not that he didn’t try, but he never tried as hard is the point. And, sometimes, with the smallest effort and a push, the smart ones make it to the top.

            Yet, in a way, they often take it for granted. Maybe I’m being the tiniest bit hypocritical, but I’ve a reason for it. The smart don’t have to put in all of their effort to do well; they simply need a bit of effort—the willingness to try—and a push. That’s it.

            And so, left behind often times are the hardworking—decently clever, but not geniuses. These people should, in every sense, be the ones not caring; if they aren’t ever going to do well, why try at all? And yet it’s the bad grades that push them, that motivate them to put in all their effort.

            I know this because I’m hardworking but not smart. Shouldn’t that constant D on my physics test turn me away and make give up? Of course not! All I want to do is strive for better now. That’s it.

            It’s such a contradiction, and maybe it only occurs to me, but the smart will never work the hardest, will never the hardest courses. Because on the side, they’ve got their friends and their extra curricular activities, and that’s pretty much all they need to keep going.

            A B+ on their test? Awesome! They’ll take it! And they barely had to study.

            So when the mix of students—the smart and the hardworking—all graduate, it just confuses when wondering who the prestigious company will hire: the one who only needs a few boring minutes to understand something? Or the one who works their butt off to get the work done efficiently?

            What’s better?

            The easy goer? Or the challenge?

            It’s a mystery even to me.

A Word for the World

Dear Madam Universe,


I am only going to say this once. You thoroughly confuse me, each and every day. Don't look at me like that. You know why. It's not a hard concept to understand. You simply throw a million thoughts at me and expect me to understand everything.


Well, I don't. I hope you know that and I hope you feel bad.


I walk through life with a smile on my face--sometimes, I'll replace that smile with a scowl or a frown or some tears. But mostly, I like to smile. And I know that you like it when I smile too. Not that it matters; no, it is mostly the smile that I wear, whether I mean it or not.


Yes, Madam Universe, sometimes I fake a smile to make you happy, and you can be astounded at that, but it's true. I live through life to smile; and when others feel like I'm the one in need of a smile, at least then I know at least one will smile at me.


But still you confuse me. You give us this smile and it is hardly used correctly. I know what you are thinking: I am a prime example. And yet it is your fault. You don't want to see me scowl or frown or shed a few tears because it is not what the world is supposed to be filled with.


Smiles. You love them smiles.


Fake or real, you love them because they give you hope. Isn't that right? If everybody smiles, just for you, the world would be such a happy place, on the surface at least. That's what everyone sees in the end, anyway. The outside.


Oh, Madam Universe, it is a devious system you have devised. I don't know whether I am proud or frightened. But that doesn't matter, either, because I am always going to smile. You will only think that I am happy.


But tell me something: will you be so happy when, one day, you see right through the smile, and you realize that it's fake?

It's All About The Timing

I’m standing in a crowded cafeteria. I’ve never had the chance to express how much I hate being in here, with the loud chattering of students, the incessant shoving of backpacks, the fast-fleeting moments where I can actually hear myself think…

            There’s a reason I eat outside.

            Yet today’s important in that I’m supposed to do something I always find myself overly excited to do—and it’s not a bad thing, not at all. Even when there are going to be hundreds of eyes on me while I sing, I usually don’t get the jitters.

            I often find the attention comforting: people are watching something I love to do; there are perks to it.

            The gig had been moved into the cafeteria due to unfortunate weather circumstances. A piano, chairs, microphones, all set up in a tiny corner on the second floor—the stage is quite insignificant, to say the least, but it is a stage nonetheless.

            Nothing will stop my anticipation.

            I’m going to perform a song with a friend of mine, soon hopefully. I’m not the kind of person who takes charge of things—it’s not completely my fault. People never give me things to take charge of. What am I to do but follow when I have no chance to lead?

            Performers alongside me are waiting to have their chance in the spotlight. Aren’t we performers always waiting? We prepare, we persist, and eventually, we reach a point where the perfect gig is a minute away. All the time spent practicing is then shown through a three-minute performance.

            It seems short, almost unfair that it’s all we ever really get.

            But I don’t care—not at all. Because three minutes is enough for me.

            I’m excited about singing in front of a crowd. I always get excited for these kinds of things, no matter how nervous I make myself seem. It’s a sort of disease, showing what I don’t feel. Perhaps I’ll fix that, but not today.

            “We may not go today, if that’s okay,” My friend says.

            I know the reason. The rain had delayed the performances, pushed people back… I hadn’t wanted to face the idea that I may not get to sing today.

            What about what we’d practiced? It hadn’t been a whole lot, but it had still been done.

            “Okay,” I say.

            I’m a pushover—at least, it’s what I want people to think. I hate to be demanding when things don’t go my way. Sometimes, it’s better to save face instead of arguing; people respect it more.

            Some groups who go up play one or two songs. I’m impatient. I wish they wouldn’t do that, with the multiple songs. Others want a chance in front of the microphone in front of the crowd too.

            Lunch will end in a few minutes.

            I’m hungry. It’s not fair. I skipped lunch for this; I had planned out my entire day so that it would revolve around this one moment, this one chance to show my peers something I love to do, and what I can do with it.

            Singing isn’t just a simple hobby—that’s what I want them to know. I want them to know that I’m good, and I want them to think I am good.

            And maybe it’s pride, but who cares? Everyone who practices like I do, and everyone who dreams like I do, and everyone who often misses chances like I do… we should get to have our time.

            Another performer, another performer, all talented, all ready, all safe… The crowd cheers at the end of each one. I tap a foot to the beat of each song, hearing the different qualities in each voice, some sweet, some beautiful, all worth my time.

            I want someone to think that when it’s my turn.

            The bell rings when my friend and I start our song. The crowd is already starting to disperse. I hate that they all have to leave, that they don’t stay to watch, that I’ve missed it—those three-minutes that had seemed so important earlier in the day… just gone.

            It’s the timing in the end, I’m thinking to myself while I sing. It’s the timing that messes with me every single time, yet I can’t do anything about it. I’m a pushover, like I said, and I’ll take things as they come.

            Sometimes I wish I wouldn’t do that. If I could only fight for what I want, perhaps I’ll get what I want.

            But I have to learn to do that.

            I see the faces of those who stayed to watch. It has dwindled a lot from the crowd just minutes before. But I have to take what comes and deal with it. Those few who stayed are listening, and they’re watching and, in some cases, they’re smiling.

            Some of my friends leave for class, and I guess it’s important, and I’m glad they stayed at least a minute… Three minutes I’m given, but without the circumstances I had longed for.

            And it is all about the timing when it comes to the idealized moment, but here, in reality, able to see those who actually care to listen, to be late to class in order to listen… Knowing that there is appreciation for me is enough for now.

            My time in the spotlight has yet to come. 

Suspense Versus Truth

Oh, dear Truth, you hold me captive every few moments, mess with my brain as if it’s entertainment. But it’s not, it really isn’t. I am thoroughly confused. You may not understand what I am talking about, not that it’s the details that really matter, in this case.

            If you wanted to know the truth, Truth, I sometimes feel like people can’t say what they feel. The surface stuff matters—of course, it is who people are, but it doesn’t say what they feel. I guess I never had a problem with it before, until now, but the details aren’t exactly needed.

            I can talk to some people and spill my guts completely, because I feel safe. I know my thoughts aren’t being tampered with. I’m alright with certain people.

            And then there are others. I try to fish out information, analyze the situation to figure it out on my own. But I get scared to outright ask what the person is feeling, if the person is feeling anything at all.

            I feel as if I’m stuck in a pool of suspense and I don’t know what to think. If people could just be straightforward—including me—the world may be just a bit too truthful, but the world would also be so much easier to understand. No conflicting feelings, just the outright truth. And sometimes it will hurt.

            But at least I won’t have to keep on guessing, right?

A Dream a Day Keeps the Dreamer Awake

“Dreams are necessary to life.” “We want to make dreams come true.” “Dreams will come true if you just believe.” “Our dreams can come true if we have courage to pursue them.”

            How many more quotes must I read before I finally feel good about myself, before the theme “dreams come true” gets etched into my brain for all eternity? How many more before I’m stuck with this so-called perfection, a cage so tight that it’s impossible to escape?

            I often find myself musing over this question.

            One has to be careful if one wants to live life joyfully. Is that not right? It has to be. Nobody likes pain or hurt, nobody likes suffering. Dreamers are idealists in every sense of the word, and they make up these perfect visions of what they want, often losing sleep over it.

            I know that what I’m saying is true, or else I couldn’t call myself a dreamer. Yet I often want to stop the dreaming, the ambition, the mind-set goals. What is the point if I can never achieve any of them?

            In my mind, I can have the perfect romantic scene with somebody I truly love, set in a specific place, with a specific song playing in the background. Or I could be working my dream job, smiling at coworkers as we all merrily get along.

            No.

            I must take all of those dreams and toss them aside before they hurt me, before they don’t come true. Dreams can be sought after, crafted to its greatest peak as Gatsby once did to Daisy… But is that dream really real when it’s already been imagined in somebody’s mind?

            Nobody can tell the future. Dreams are not the future. They’re simply what the dreamer wants the future to be, but there has not been a single time where the dream has come true the way the dreamer wanted it.

            Perhaps it’s worse. Perhaps it’s better.

            I can’t ever say.

            But dreams haunt everybody. They give people a reason to strive forward and a reason to fall.

            Is it fair that they have so much potential, yet they can be the cause for the greatest hurt?

            Are dreams worth staying up all night? And, are they worth crying over?

            Because there is a single truth that can be meshed up from all of this, and that is that dreams are not real.

Effortless

They view their job as asking, and they view my job as giving answers.

            Sometimes I want to shout. I am not superman. I am not an octopus. I do not have supernatural powers. I do not have eight arms. I am merely a human being. Just like them.

            But they… those arrogant, ungrateful, blood sucking… They drain me of my time and do not pause to thank me. They take away my knowledge and do not turn back to give me something in return.

            I am just like them. Just like them! It takes effort, just as it would them.

            Is it fair that I should set aside a good storybook to analyze a math equation for my sister? Is it fair that I should set aside my homework to lend my skill with words to my brother? Is it fair that I should set aside my writing to listen to my friends complain about useless topics?

            No. Not when they expect it every second of every day.

            There are times when I feel used. I know it is not true. How could it be? I let myself be used, and, therefore, it is of my free will. I give them my uses for nothing in return, for nothing but empty promises.

            What I hate is that I know it, yet I cannot do anything about it. What I hate is that they don’t know it, and so they are oblivious to my hidden thoughts. What I hate is that I don’t have the courage to tell them that it’s my turn, my turn to get what I want.

            I have to only speak up. I wish so many things, that I can speak up, but something catches in my throat when I’m about to. Something… Something stops me from standing in the spotlight, bars my way so rudely.

            And I know what it is. It is me.

            I am a giver.

            If only a giver weren’t so afraid to receive. 

Stories and the Human Race

There are people. There are backgrounds. There are personalities.

            This is life.

            It could mean missed chances, but it could also mean new chances opened up: new environments and new people and, well, new stories.

            The what if’s that correspond with life are an aggravation on their own. I am constantly bombarded with strange visions of what my life could have been had I, say, never gone to a Chinese school. Or I’m wondering what my life could have been if my hair had never been pulled harshly by a girl in my class. Or I’m thinking up possibilities with guys who once flirted with me before I closed up because I didn’t want anyone to know if I liked them.

            And now I’m stuck.

            I’m stuck in mud and I don’t know how to escape. Perhaps if I had taken a different route, I would have reached the illusory imaginings I once dreamed of having, that peaceful and calm lake, surrounded by a canopy of trees where life is perfect.

            Maybe, even, I would be at the mall with a bunch of girls I admired from far away, buying makeup, buying clothes, buying shoes, and simply enjoying life, no worries, no pains. Carpe diem.

            But I didn’t do that. Instead, I took a pathway that intrigued me a bit, mostly because it was the easiest to take at the time. When I attended a Chinese school, it had not been my desire to go, but that of my parents. When that girl pulled my hair at age seven, I had no desire to go through that again. When that boy flirted with me on vacation, the desire to even think about going out with him hadn’t even entered my mind.

            So it was the timing, it was the parents, it was the fear. The stories and the events piled on top of each other, overflowed to push me forward, to push me to where I am now.

            I know now that it’s not only me, however. It is everyone else. You.

            Parents, the beings who brought you into the world, can set you at the entrance of that great forest. Friends, those people you run into along the way, can influence you in the direction you choose to go. Decisions, the path you decide to set foot on, can last for a lifetime.

            So yes. It is not only me.

            I am but one of the many travelers of the world. Sometimes, I come into contact with another. At other times, I am cooped up by myself with nothing but my words and a piece of paper.

            There is no point in dwelling in what could have been, no point in reminiscing about past opportunities.

            The old saying is true in every sense: when one door closes, a window opens.

            It is by this belief that I know, no matter who I am in ten years, or fifteen years, or thirty years, that I will never be lost.

            And neither will you.