A few days ago, I was walking around with my umbrella in the midst of a snowstorm. I felt cold but cozy. For some reason, that scenario (the granular effect on my vision, the formation of little white mounds, and this sound isolation effect) felt beautiful. Of course, that momentary glimmer was gone as fast as it appeared. I had to walk over to the Iribe Center to study for my midterm the next day.
The day after was riddled with anxiety and the question: “What have I achieved?” I’m always trying to grow in every possible way: socially, emotionally, physically, in focus, in my responsibilities, and intellectually. But at that moment, my progress felt null because the true question I had in my heart was not what I achieved, but what I appeared to have achieved.
It’s understandable that metrics matter. So much of our existence is governed by reason. Every little aspect of what we are and what we know is identified, categorized, and ranked. Everything around us is embedded in measurement, and so are we. It feels natural to live as if we’re immortal. Everything around us feels immortal and eternal: nature, society, our sense of self. And it gives meaning and will to think of eternity—legacy. We want to achieve, and we want to be recognized for our achievements: immortalized in the eyes of others and our own. However, we are not immortal, far from it: our lives are ephemeral. And none of our achievements or legacies will last for eternity. Chasing eternity is chasing a horizon. That is not to say there is no beauty in achieving; there is: from the entire process that brought you to that point and what comes next. But if the only thing one sees is the title, then what is left besides panic and frustration? After all, it becomes binary: either you achieved, or you didn’t. Your life was a waste, you are lazy, not enough: a failure.
It rained quite a bit yesterday morning. Again, I was struck by the beauty of the sound and the reflections framed by the water. Just as quickly, I remembered I needed to go to class. I’m graduating soon. A lot of things are happening, have happened, and will happen. I have no control over most of what afflicts me. And what I do have control over doesn’t feel like enough. You see, if I empty my mind, all I see is a maze full of bifurcated paths that I ended up on. The instant I deconstruct the maze, I realize that there’s a field, not a yes or no or true or false path of choices. In fact, no choices at all. And that’s neither negative nor positive, nor even a necessary truth. It’s a reminder that we construct narratives. And if I think about it, walking around campus on a rainy day felt good. My friendships, hardships, improvements, mistakes, getting drunk and being hungover, dramas, fights, these are all part of my life. Nothing can reverse them—they all hold beauty because life is a moment, and every fraction of it composes my existence. I’m cementing time with my actions. Eternally—for a brief moment.
