Prologue.
Who I Am in Theory and Practice
I’m a romantic archivist of pain and meaning, drowning in my own melodramatic and theatrical sadness.
I’m a collector of things that made me feel something once. I repeatedly find myself in short-lived
states of infatuation with what could have been and what will never be. Perfumes that smell like old
books and vanilla bring me a sense of comfort that I cannot find internally. I try to sift through
life
to filter out the important elements so I can focus on the small details. I’ve been told that
“over-emotional” and “hyper-perceptive” are understatements when asked to describe myself. I have
many
favorite quotes, but Ruth Ozeki’s writing in A Tale for the Time Being makes me feel like I was born
to
read this excerpt:
“The moment I saw the gate I had a
strong thought to turn around and throw myself headfirst down the
steep stone steps or just let myself free-fall backward into the pillowy softness of eternity, and
it
wouldn't matter if I bumped and bounced like a cabbage all the way down until I hit the bottom and
then
rolled out to sea, because at least I'd be safe and dead.”
― Ruth Ozeki, A Tale for the Time Being
I find myself in the same dilemma quite often. The convenience of falling back and giving up is so
much
more appealing than it sounds. Sometimes, I’d rather take the wounds and scars of never knowing what
is
behind that gate to save myself some peace of mind. The only issue is exactly that: I’ll never know
what
is behind. Whenever I feel like I’m struggling to make a choice, I remember this quote and decide
what
is best for me: pushing that gate open.
On a much simpler level, I’m just a seventeen year old girl in the Bay Area who likes to read
microscopically between the lines of virtually everything. I’m a capricorn–you know you care– thanks
to
my lovely birthday, the fourth of January. I was born in Tokat, Turkey. I’m an older sister and an
only
daughter. I love cats and I have one of my very own named Velvet. I hate lead pencils and will use
an
erasable pen in place of them whenever I can, but will use a fountain pen in place of an erasable
pen
whenever I can–there’s a very specific hierarchy that I’m loyal to.
I spend most of my time either writing, reading, or studying. I love hermeneutic literature for a
variety of reasons and try to mold my writings in the same ways. As for reading, I do prefer
fictional
works that embody emotional, reflective, and gloomy themes. I’ve never considered one book to be my
all-time favorite, but I do have treasured authors: Paulo Coelho, Jerry Spinelli, Donna Tartt,
Khaled
Hosseini, and Arthur Conan Doyle, to name a few. Quite a lot of their works have inspired my passion
for
knowledge. I view studying as an art form rather than a chore. I take pride in gathering
information,
whether academic or a personal voyage, almost as much as I love to share it. It’s something I find
relaxing and enjoyable–only if you let it be.
Academia is a significant factor in my life. My quest for information extends far deeper than simply
passing a class or memorizing a fact. I tested out of high school in my second year to pursue my
interest in biological sciences at a collegiate level. After completing my bachelor’s degree, I hope
to
continue my education in the medical field and earn the title of being a board-certified
anesthesiologist. I’ve been told that I plan too far ahead and that I should not set my mind on a
desire
that could change at any moment, but I do not see it that way. One of the phenomena regarding
anesthesia
that lured me in is anesthetic dreaming. This state of consciousness–or rather lack thereof–has
barely
been observed due to its difficulty to study. My main goal with anesthesiology is to contribute
significantly to this phenomena by understanding how this dream state is triggered, its effects on
the
human brain, and whether there are any potential benefits to being in this condition.
Things I Live For
Despite what I named this section, a lot of the things I like are not things I live for but rather
things I live because of. It’s not often that I listen to music but when I do, it absolutely shifts
the
trajectory of my day. I try to listen to music that isn’t too moody because I’ve found that it
heavily
influences the way I feel. I went a couple months without listening to music last year and felt an
increase in my happiness throughout the day. I steer clear of anything too gloomy now so I don’t
fall
back into the “I’m sad and I don’t know why” rabbit hole. Fiona Apple, Sade, Erykah Badu, and Imogen
Heap are my most played artists, according to Spotify.
I hate to admit it, but my favorite piece of film media has been Twilight ever since I first saw it
in
middle school. I’m a longstanding fan of the Twilight Saga and probably its biggest apologist. If
blind
adoration is real, then it seems to exist between me and Stephenie Meyer’s despicable writing. As
embarrassing as it is, I’m a huge Team Edward fan and will live by this until the day I die,
probably.
Among all of my Twilight mania, I’m also a fan of some actually good pieces of cinema! I’ve never
been
huge on movies but I love a good unnecessarily long show. My most recent fixations have been Suits
and
Invincible. Other shows I’ve been a long-term fan of are Peaky Blinders, Great Pretender, You, and
The
Good Place.
I also live for romance. It’s not in the way you might think of. I’m speaking of the romantic nature
of
life, being alive, and ourselves. My personal definition of romance is “the details we don’t notice
that
keep us alive”: the romantic tension between your lungs and the air you breathe, the emotional
prance
your eyes perform to glance around, the intimate tango your fingers indulge in to help you through
your
day. It’s all some sort of love affair that you pay no attention to because you don’t really need
to. On
the other hand, my thoughts on typical romance are much more quixotic. I hold a very idealistic and
unrealistic view on romance that I don’t think I’ll ever get to experience in this life. I also
wouldn’t
settle for anything less than, so I don’t bother worrying about something I know will never happen.
Hobbies and Things I Enjoy
I don’t like hoarding things, but I do collect perfume bottles and books. I have a plentiful amount
of
perfume bottles and packaging hidden away inside my closet, due to both sentimental value and the
aesthetic appeal of how some bottles look. None of them are anything very luxurious, though; I don’t
like spending too much on needless things like scents. As for books, I’d give a lot of money for a
special copy of works from an author I admire. I possess an anniversary edition of The Alchemist by
Paulo Coelho, gifted from a friend, that I hold very dear to my heart. It was the first book by
Coelho
that I ever read. I’m also interested in growing my collection of older books, preferably decades
old,
and gradually add to it whenever I come across a sweet bookshop.
Other than writing it out, I like expressing my feelings through music as well. I’ve been playing
guitar
for almost a decade and I’ve been self-studying piano recently. I took lessons when I was younger
but
never felt the appeal that I felt towards guitar. I’m hoping to bring back some of my prodigy skills
with a slow learning process. Piano is a difficult instrument to teach yourself, though, so I’m
hoping
I’ll have the motivation and means to get pretty far in this new experience. I’ve written a couple
of
songs and performed a couple of times but I don’t think I’ve ever been able to perform to my best
ability (I have stage fright). Music has been a good learning opportunity for me. I’ve felt an
increase
in my self-esteem since I started pursuing it publicly.
In Another Life
I’ve always dreamt of having my own bookstore. Something cozy and small. Maybe sell coffee on the
side.
If I had the financial means to do it, I’d probably go for it. I would’ve majored in finance or
something and managed my own coffee-shop-book-store building. It’s a nice ambition to think about
and
sometimes I get my hopes up that if the doctor thing works out for me, I’ll retire early and invest
in
this daydream. I already have everything planned out for it, all from what I’d call it down to the
playlist I’d put on the speakers. Sometimes I fall asleep imagining myself in this building, making
a
latte and then going out to put some books back on the shelves. I’d water the plants hanging from
the
ceilings and wipe down the windows, put some kibble out front for any dogs passing by, chat with
regulars, anything to make my dream seem real.
Pomegranatalia
“Is it desire that fuels the heavy heart of a creation so disappointed by the
inventions of its
likeness? If so, what desire is in its capacity? Where does the creation look to for answers if not
a higher being, The God, who invented the creations who invent? If its purpose, so to say, is to
endure and never reach a higher design, why does it exist? The solitude of these creations creates,
from nothing, the longing to reach a full potential that is intangible and a likelihood of
improbable existence. However, if you disbelieve in such a concept, who controls the probable and
improbable? A maddening invention is the mind, its volume brimmed with conflicts and overlooked
cognitive dissonance. The creation can not be the creator. There is no use in arguing such an ill,
backward concept with no proof of existence. So, creation of inventions, who controls the probable
and improbable? If one cannot prove the likes of their own existence, what is their likelihood of
improbable existence? A concept that fledges back and forth between its own reasoning is of no use
defending or arguing. If this is the case, why do creations, the creators of inventions, twist the
mind, brimmed with arrogance this time, into a substance unwilling to cooperate, creating
simultaneously a surplus of disappointment? When the heavy heart of certain creations witness these
calamities, their empty hearts, known to nor of nothing, fill inversely with hatred of its likeness.
The malevolence of its heart minimizes the effect of its mind, brimming with unnecessary inquiry,
taking on what it struggles to comprehend and invents new concepts unknown unto itself. So tell me,
creators of inventions, who is it that creates you?”
In a verbatim sense, the red juice and crunch of a pomegranate’s seeds fills an aperture in my body
that
I forget exists. Metaphorically–yet so literally–, this fruit is my soul. One can husk the exocarp
to
get to the sweet core; the memories, the psyche, and the accumulation of human emotion. Its sole
existence is a manifestation of human life. Unlike other fruit, it offers knowledge. Solitaries
suchlike
seedless grapes and coconuts only embody humanity of a trivial scale and a vain confidence beyond
our
comprehension. But what does a pomegranate suggest? Does it personify all aspects of extant life or
detach the virtuous and heinous into conventional classes?
The desires of this world are laborious to entertain. I find myself lost in a struggle of balancing
tangible longings and an inexplicable need to understand the world from a transcendent perspective.
The struggles end far from this mark. Elaborating my thoughts to others, even those of likeness,
becomes a battle between my tongue and mind. It is with a heavy heart, full of discontent, that I
have let go of sharing the natures of my mind as a means to save my sanity. In place, I find myself
confiding in the portrait of fruit and the intangible. To be more precise, pomegranates have become
a key in my heart where I contain the depths of myself. The membranes hold seeds, similar to the
memories I hold in my heart, and cannot be picked apart until I inevitably crush one out of
existence. Nonetheless, it is dissimilar to agony. There is no melancholy or bittersweet resentment
involved in these recollections. It webs together pieces of myself I cannot expound and innovates
out of the muddle. Perhaps one may call it fabled, but I see it through eyes unakin to regular
philosophy. The disillusionment caused by our tradition of scrutinizing through one lens is a factor
that can be transformed with the simple act of removing the outer shell of our pomegranates and
leaving vulnerability to be determined by the possibility that we will not be distressed.
Though how may one come about this result? What tragedies must one suffer to establish such a bond
between the veins of their heart and the veins of a fruit? Succinctly, the answer is none. No
distress must exist in order for such to materialize. Certainly, it might accelerate the process and
strike significantly rougher, but you must apprehend that no quantity of psychiatry or even divine
intervention can provide a justification for why or how a promise like this occurs. Some matters are
meant to stay a mystery. Few things are meant to be comprehended with no logical reasoning, yet, by
such luck, this remains to be one of those scarce conceptions. If you must have a reason to believe,
then you may be assured that you do not possess a certain prolificity in your own soul. Notions made
for everybody are not notions: these are the verities of life and therefore must not exist the way I
have stated.
