Eric Tian

Today I read through an old journal and relived some memories.

I relived the stress before high school exams, the joy of quartet rehearsals, the aroma of mum’s cooking, the burn of summer days, the mundanity of viola practice, the joy of late night runs.

Without the words I scribbled down in the moment, these memories would have been lost forever.

Note taking is the closest thing we have to time travel, it is a note affirming our place in the word, a rebellion against the entropy of memory.

It is moments that remind me of the power of the written word.

I haven’t been writing much lately and I can notice it. My thoughts feel cloudier, slower, as if weighed down by an invisible force, a weight that consists mostly of medicine, as the exam season is here, a time where levels of neuroticism and conscientiousness reach their annual high, and other priorities are unconsciously pushed aside.

My athletics coach once told me that if you don’t run for one week, your body begins reverting back to its weaker, less coordinated state before you started running. It doesn’t take long for your aerobic and muscular efforts to be completely nullified back to baseline levels. Your body needs constant stimulus to keep growing. The antidote to deterioration is consistency.

I suspect a similar thing happens with our minds. If we stop thinking and seeing the world in a certain way, we begin to remodel them as if they don’t exist. It takes constant action of our priorities to best spend the limited time we have.

We are verbs, not nouns.

Today in the elevator, I overheard a man talking to his son. He said, “There’s a big difference between someone who is peaceful and someone who is weak. A peaceful person is capable of great violence. If you are not capable of violence, you are harmless.”

The elevator reached my floor. I looked back at the kid, he must have been only four or five, and he stared back at me with big, brown eyes. As I walked out, I murmured a quote I remembered under my breath.

“Those who have swords and know how to use them, but keep them sheathed, will inherit the Earth.”

Last week a moth flew into my apartment. I first noticed it as I was hanging out my washing, it was sitting on the balcony while I was minding my own business and suddenly it flew inside. I didn’t think much of it at the time because I was sure it would fly back out except it never did, so then when I was finished with the washing I was left to choose between leaving the door open and risking more bugs flying in or closing the door and living with a moth. What ultimately tipped the balance was the weather, as it was getting cold outside so I went inside and shut the door, effectively sealing our fates. And so, we’ve been living together for the past week.

It’s a pretty big moth, definitely larger than an average sized one, which led me to wonder if by any chance I had a royal moth in my home, but soon it became terrifying, largely because it was so unpredictable. For hours I could go without seeing the moth but then suddenly, as I would cook or open my sock wardrobe, bang, there it would be, flying directly at my face, and it was shocking, like being getting attacked, and in those moments I realised I hated big, black furry flying bugs.

I tried everything I could to get it to leave. I would open the balcony door for hours at a time, but once it flew on handle of the door but not actually outside and then I tried to shoo it out except it flew back inside the living room. It was as if it were repelled by the air outside. And then I thought of leaving it a food trail to lure it outside but upon Googling, I found out that moths don’t actually eat that much so abandoned the idea. After this, frustration got the better of me and I decided that the only option left was to kill it so the next time I saw it I would end its life. I spent many nights carrying a thong in my hand and a tissue in the other, waiting for the moth to land on my desk or somewhere I could reach but for whatever reason, it knew when I had murderous intent and began hiding itself from me in unreachable places – the ceiling, behind the fridge, the back of the pantry. It was an awful, humiliating dance. And for each passing day I began to hate the moth more and more.

This morning though, I saw that the moth was finally dead. It was under my desk, lying next to my laptop charger, without a trace of movement. I kicked the charger a bit, seeing if it would wake up, but it didn’t. I have no idea what killed it, maybe it ran out of energy, or it was killed by a predator bug (I sure hope not) or maybe it had enough itself and flew into one too many walls. I was a little sad seeing it dead, despite hoping for this outcome previously, because in that moment it looked so pathetic, so un-royal-like and it occurred to me that the moth must have starved to death. And then I began to feel sorry for the moth, thinking how awful it would be to die in a foreign apartment, when it probably desperately wanted to get out.

I sat up, grabbed a tissue then gently pinched the moth from the floor and looked at it for a while. Seeing it up close, I realised it was beautiful, it had silver tinges around its wings and wavy patterns on its body. I took it outside and placed the moth on the balcony where I first found it, hoping it would wake up and fly away (but please not into my apartment). But it never did. I looked up at the sky. It was a day similar to when I had first met the moth – chilly and overcast. I wondered if, in a way, things had come full circle. When I looked down, the moth was gone.

May you rest in peace.

Forever is composed of nows. (Emily Dickenson)

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. (Annie Dillard)

Don’t let your life pass you by, weep not for the memories. (Sarah McLachlan)

From Les Misérables by Victor Hugo:

Gradually, they began to talk. Overflow succeeded to silence, which is fullness. The night was serene and glorious above their heads. These two beings, pure as spirits, told each other everything, their dreams, their frenzies, their ecstasies, their chimeras, their despondencies, how they had adored each other from afar, how they had longed for each other, their despair when they had ceased to see each other. They had confided to each other in an intimacy of the ideal, which already, nothing could have increased, all that was most hidden and most mysterious in themselves. They told each other, with a candid faith in their illusions, all that love, youth and the remnant of childhood that was theirs, brought to mind. These two hearts poured themselves out to each other, so that at the end of an hour, it was the young man who had the young girl’s soul and the young girl who had the soul of the young man. They interpenetrated, they enchanted, they dazzled each other.

When they had finished, when they had told each other everything, she laid her head on his shoulder, and asked him: “What is your name?”

“My name is Marius,” he said. “And yours?”
“My name is Cosette.”

From The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran:

Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Last week I was riding home from the hospital after a long day and it was raining, like really raining, where each drop hurts a little when it hits and the cars have their windscreen wipers on the highest gear (except my glasses don’t have windscreen wipers) and the roads become little rivers and you pray the rivers are shallow enough for safe riding.

I was struggling up a hill, fully soaked, breathing heavily and feeling a little sorry for myself when I noticed a person running towards me. He was a caucasian man with a bald head and he wore no shirt, just a pair of running shorts and sneakers. He was sprinting down the hill while I was slowly riding up it.

“Hey!” I heard a voice shout. I kept riding, trying not to slip on the wet road. “Hey!” I looked up.

“Great weather, isn’t it?” And with this, he flew past me, laughing like a child, into the rivers below.

From Paper Towns by John Green:

“My heart is really pounding.”

“That’s how you know you’re having fun,” Margo said.

…

“As long as we don’t die, this is gonna be one hell of a story.”

I’ve recently been spending a few minutes each morning taking in the Astronomy Picture of the Day.

It never fails to instil in me a sense of awe at our galaxy and our place in it.

It is a humbling reminder of the vastness and beauty of life.