Eric Tian

Henry died on April 26, leaving behind a pregnant wife, two-year-old son, and $50,000 in debt.

As Henry’s spirit left his body, the last thing he noticed was his neck: how it was crooked at an awkward angle with shards of window glass sticking out, blood running down his chest.

Henry’s spirit floated out of his car, into the sky, past the skyscrapers, clouds and the sun, until he came face to face with God.

“Where the hell am I?” Henry slurred.

“You are dead,” God said.

“What do you mean, I’m dead? I was driving when I…” He paused.

“You mean I died there? Off the road?”

“That’s right,” God said.

Henry paused, sobering up. He was 41, and though he had known people who had died younger, he always expected to reach at least 90. The realisation that his hopes and dreams would never transpire suddenly overwhelmed him with regret.

“Don’t worry too much,” God said. “It was a quick and painless death. Plus, you had metastatic prostate cancer growing inside you – explains your back pain. Accidents suck, but all things considered it wasn’t too bad.”

Henry went into a deep think. He could see Earth in the near distance, the size of a golf ball. Surrounding him was a vast space of void with no sound to be heard.

“So what happens now?” Henry asked. “Do I go to hell or something?”

“Nope,” God replied. “That only applies if you have heard the gospel, which you haven’t. My job is to reincarnate you.”

“Oh.”

“So what do you think?”

“What do you mean what do I think?”

“Do you think you have lived a good life? You know, for your reincarnation and all.”

“Oh right. Yeah,” Henry said, straightening up. “I have. You know, I treat everyone with respect. Pay my taxes and have never been in jail. Volunteer here and there, have never beat my kid and stuff.”

God stared at Henry and waited for him to continue. When nothing more was said, God cleared his throat.

“Henry,” God began. “You were driving drunk tonight to sleep with that girl from work, Claudia remember? How can you say you respect everyone when you have a wife?”

Henry said nothing.

“And even though you’ve never beaten your son, you neglect him for your gambling and alcohol addiction. He has even started to resent and fear you. Do you even know his birthday?”

Henry realised he did not.

“So what makes you think you have lived a good life?”

Henry looked back on his life and realised that God was right. He had not lived a good life. He had squandered opportunities, betrayed the few people who loved him, and took far more than he gave. At that moment, he looked back down on Earth and saw the few people who mourned for his life, not for what it had been, but what it could have been.

He saw his parents toiling as immigrants, hoping for their children to have a good life. He saw his wife, who believed in him more than any person should have. He saw the moment she found out she was pregnant and the dreams she put on hold for the baby, despite feeling unprepared for motherhood. He saw his few coworkers who appreciated his talents but hated his erratic behaviour more each day. With time, all these people would leave him. With time, he would have nobody left.

Henry wished for nothing more than to be able to go back and change it all.

“Please give me a second chance,” Henry cried. “I can do better.”

“Too late for that,” God replied. “I think you deserve nothing better than a termite.”

“No, please God, I promise.”

God had a glint in His eye. “Off you go.”

---

Henry woke up tying his shoelace.

“Where are you going, honey?”

The voice, as well as the surroundings, were familiar. His leather shoes, the neatly furnished home, the smell of roasted pork wafting in the air. It couldn’t be. It felt like… home.

He hurriedly took out his phone and checked the date. April 26. The day of his death.

“Are you going out to the pub again?”

As he turned, he came face to face with his wife. And when he saw her, he shuttered at her beauty. She certainly had more wrinkles than when he had first met her, but she was still a beautiful person. She wore an apron and gave a tired but kind smile. She had tolerated far more than any woman should have but was now close to her breaking point.

Behind her, a small head poked out. He almost did not recognise the boy if not for the eyes which shared his tint of green but now bled contempt.  Henry prayed it was not too late to repair.

“No,” Henry said, taking them both in his arms. “I am staying home tonight.” And he wept.

By Emily Dickinson:

All five of my favourite non-fiction books this year have two things in common:

1. They are written simply.
2. They tell excellent stories.

This combination is the most effective form of non-fiction writing I have seen.

When you write simply, you allow the reader to spend less energy on your prose, and more on your ideas. And when you tell a good story on top, these ideas will stick even more.

Gone are the days of never ending sentences, digressions and jargon. Clear and emotive writing is the way forward.

And in case you were wondering, these are the five books:

1. Stolen Focus: Why You Can’t Pay Attention – Johann Hari
2. Lost Connections: Why You’re Depressed and How to Find Hope – Johann Hari
3. The Psychology of Money: Timeless Lessons on Wealth, Greed, and Happiness – Morgan Housel
4. Same as Ever: A Guide to What Never Changes – Morgan Housel
5. The Body: A Guide for Occupants – Bill Bryson

I have started a morning routine of skipping rope. 10 minutes, right upon waking, in an outdoor area beside the apartment gym.

On Monday, I saw a middle-aged man walking his dog along the path near me. We didn’t exchange words but the two were memorable: the brown poodle was well-groomed and had a long face, just like its owner.

On Tuesday, I saw them again. This time, the poodle saw me skipping and wagged its tail. The man and I exchanged a smile. If it were not for my set, I would have tried to pat it. They continued slowly down the path, clearly accustomed to the route.

On Wednesday I wasn’t able to skip due to an exam.

Today is Thursday and we met again. This time, the man looked happy to see me as well. Although I had two minutes left in my set, I decided petting the dog was more important. Its fur was as soft as a cloud, without a speck of dirt. Its name tag read ‘Bryan’ – a great name. We parted again without a word, though I swear Bryan’s tail wagged a bit more down the path today.

I look forward to meeting them again tomorrow.

Last week, I listened to the full Hamilton soundtrack while rowing at the gym. I have seen Hamilton twice, once on Disney+ and once live in Melbourne, but not in a while. In re-experiencing this musical, three themes stuck out to me that I had missed on my first few watchings: Angelica’s emotional dilemma, Aaron Burr’s transition into a notable figure, and Hamilton’s dramatic but fitting decline from politics.

1. Angelica’s Dilemma

I never fully appreciated how subtle and well done A Winter’s Ball/Helpless and Satisfied are in parallel with each other. While they all recount the identical scene of Hamilton’s initial meeting with the Schuyler sisters, the song Satisfied reveals Angelica’s deep affection for Hamilton despite ultimately letting him marry her sister Eliza. Its lyrics begin an unresolved thread throughout the musical: just what exactly was Hamilton’s relationship with his sister-in-law?

“But when I fantasise at night, it’s Alexander’s eyes
As I romanticise what might have been if I hadn’t sized
Him up so quickly
At least my dear Eliza’s his wife
At least I keep his eyes in my life”

2. Skin In The Game (Burr’s Transition)

The Room Where It Happens is the song that marked the transition of Burr’s character from cautious and passive to one like Hamilton’s forthright, daring nature. This was highlighted by the change in lyrics across the song regarding “the room”, which foreshadowed future events of his ascendency into politics, ironically by following Hamilton’s path.

“No one else was in the room when it happened” (start), to:
“I wanna be in the room when it happens” (middle), to:
“I gotta be in the room when it happens” (end).

Finally, my favourite lyrics in the whole musical are from the following sequence:

Burr: Or did you know even then it doesn’t matter where you put the U.S. capital?
Hamilton: Cause we’ll have the banks, we’re in the same spot
Burr: You got more than you gave
Hamilton: And I wanted what I got
When you got skin in the game, you stay in the game
But you don’t get a win unless you play in the game
Oh, you get love for it
You get hate for it
But you get nothing if you (Wait for it, wait for it, wait)
God help and forgive me
I wanna build something that’s gonna outlive me
What do you want Burr? (What do you want Burr?)
What do you want Burr? (What do you want Burr?)
If you stand for nothing then what’ll you fall for? (What do you want Burr?)

3. Hurricane (Hamilton’s Fitting Downfall)

A few songs after The Room Where It Happens comes Hurricane, the song that showcases Hamilton’s thoughts moments before his affair with Maria Reynolds explodes into public eye. What is unique about this is that his downfall in the Reynolds Pamphlet is driven by the same ambition that led him to his present successes: his obsessions with writing and defending his honour. We see from the following lyrics that in this precarious moment, he reflects on the times writing served him well.

“I wrote my way out of hell
I wrote my way to revolution
I was louder than the crack in the bell
I wrote Eliza love letters until she fell
I wrote about The Constitution and defended it well
And in the face of ignorance and resistance
I wrote financial systems into existence
And when my prayers to God were met with indifference
I picked up a pen, I wrote my own deliverance“

It is thus tragic that Hamilton’s attempt to address rumours of speculation about him is by writing the Reynolds Pamphlet, which contributed to the end of his political career. In defending his honour with his writing, he guarantees a life marked by controversy.

Notably, his obsession with defending his honour is a factor in his eventual duel with Aaron Burr given Hamilton’s inability to reconcile for political differences. Had Hamilton put his honour aside, the two may have settled their differences and we may have a different ending to his story. But a far less interesting one.

Overall, Hamilton is a brilliant musical. What makes an art great is its ability to uncover deeper meanings every time you experience it. I think Hamilton is no exception.

Growing up, I was an awkward kid.

I sang Justin Bieber in inappropriate situations.
I cracked jokes that were offensive or didn’t make sense.
I struggled to make eye contact.
I fidgeted with my hands constantly.
I neglected cultural norms, to the annoyance of my Chinese parents.
I stammered a lot, especially towards elders.

A sad but true story: In high school, I was too scared to talk to my crush in person so I emailed her instead. Luckily, she replied. I found out a few years later that she thought the person she was emailing was another Asian guy.

And whenever I felt uncomfortable of my awkwardness, I resorted to video games and books instead of addressing the issue head on. I thought I would be awkward forever.

But yesterday, after making small talk with a stranger in the lift and reflecting on the day in the hospital, I think that is no longer true. It feels ridiculous to write, but I don’t think I am awkward any longer. I am a functional human being.

One of the most underrated forces in the world is change. Isn’t it amazing how neglected children like Simone Biles can become Olympic medallists, how failing students can become high achievers, how an awkward child can transform?

The main reason I tutor is to be a part of exactly this. When I see someone make steps towards their goals, there is a joy and excitement within me that bursts open like a well. It is a beautiful force to be reckoned with.

“One day, I realised with all these people I was jealous of, I couldn’t just choose little aspects of their life. I couldn’t say I want his body, I want her money, I want his personality. You have to be that person. Do you want to actually be that person with all of their reactions, their desires, their family, their happiness level, their outlook on life, their self-image? If you’re not willing to do a wholesale, 24/7, 100 percent swap with who that person is, then there is no point in being jealous.” – Naval Ravikant

“My mind is a storm. I don’t think most people would want to be me. They may think they’d want to be me but they don’t know, they don’t understand.” – Elon Musk

“The supreme happiness of life consists in the conviction that one is loved; loved for oneself, or rather, loved in spite of oneself.” – Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

“O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.” – William Shakespere, Othello

“Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.” – Carrie Fisher

I was walking through Queen Victoria Market the other day when a few things struck me.

I do not produce any of my own clothing.
I do not grow any of the food I eat.
I speak a language I did not create.
I live in an apartment I did not build or plan.
I am moved by music I did not compose.
I am reliant on devices I did not invent.
My world is defined by mathematics and laws I did not discover.
My life is governed by policies and legislations I have no influence over, yet which make living fair and comfortable.

I love and am inspired by my species, and am fully reliant on them for my survival and wellbeing.

I have always wanted to be a writer. A capital W Writer; a name recognised alongside Hemingway, Orwell, Saint-Exupéry and Dostoyevsky. These were my childhood heroes, people who offered me the greatest stories and values. It seemed like the most noble and influential job in the world.

I began writing online in March 2019. I wrote a few posts, mostly on productivity and running, then 100 more, then 200, then 500. This is my 555th post. In that time, I also published three short stories, guest wrote for a few blogs, tutored essay writing to students, and kept up a daily journal. It seemed like a decent resume for becoming a Writer.

Yet in these last few weeks, there are increasingly moments where I stare at the screen for an hour unable to write anything. I have hundreds of drafts, but nothing I like enough to post. And I think a lot of it has to do with this obsession with being a Writer.

For me, writing started out innocent: a random guy throwing his ideas into the world without a care. Somewhere along the way, the pressure of being a “legit writer” took away my juvenile eagerness and replaced it with anxious perfectionism. Now, I endlessly edit sentences, spend hours changing words, and hesitate to start a topic that might be seen as too naive or pompous. All because of this standard I have set for myself: becoming a capital W Writer.

---

I recently listened to a podcast episode between Dr. K and Ali Abdaal. In it, Ali talks about feeling imposter syndrome after publishing his book because he felt like he was “just a random guy”. And after he gave a talk at Google and read comments criticising his lack of academic credentials, he felt stung. Deep down, he felt that they were right. He didn’t deserve the prestige of talking at Google. He was just a random guy.

Dr. K said this one sentence that struck me:

“A lot of the challenges that people face are when they construct identities for themselves to strive towards.”

He goes on to explain that a lot of suffering occurs when people are too attached to abstractions: being rich, a winner, a respected person. Yet these are all constructs; you cannot autopsy a body to find these.

All our lives consist of are individual moments strung together over time. The best thing we can do is to try and make the most of each one. Right now, I am sitting in a plastic chair at a library typing on a Macbook Air with a coffee cup and drink bottle next to me. This is all. Anything further – that I am successful, a winner, a “Writer”, is an abstraction.

All that is left to do is to write – as true and genuinely as possible. And with time, perhaps these individual moments will culminate in a piece of work that rivals my heroes; and perhaps then, will my dream emerge as a reality, and it will not have mattered one bit.

I was on the plane bored and unable to fall asleep, when I noticed the man next to me playing Wordle. It was not the daily one, but some spin-off with infinite rounds. You play until you get the word wrong. His streak was 94.

He was pretty good and usually got the right word within four attempts. There was something odd about his strategy though: he began every round with “Zesty” and “Brain”. Always the same two words. I felt immediately that there was some fantastic story underlying these peculiar choices. After a while, I could not help myself.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “I couldn’t help but notice that you use the same words every round.”

He turned to me, surprised.

“Yes,” he replied in a French accent. “I like the words.”

“Is there a story behind them?”

“Nope. I just like how they sound.”

We sat in silence for the rest of the flight.

Humans have a tendency to attribute stories or meanings to random events. This has led us to some fascinating results – religion, for example – but can be disappointing when the truth is revealed.

I so wished he had an interesting story.