There are two tubes plugged to your left arm. The doctor said that it’s necessary to keep you going. You can barely move your finger, yet your mind is still chattering.

“I wish I wasted more time on that shit job I hated,” you say to yourself. “I wish I worked like a mule so I could completely ignore my loved ones; I wish I spent more time caring what others think, and made myself a miserable wreck by trying to please everyone; I wish had more debt so I could spend decades of my life trying to repay it by being a wage slave; I wish I endlessly tortured myself by being anxious about everything.”

The Reaper is walking towards you. His scythe is ready. You are not.

“Please, no, no, no. Please. I wish I ha—”

For all my life, I wanted to be like others—professional gamers, startup founders, talented musicians, brilliant programmers, and even buff bodybuilders. I was a mediocre human doing mediocre things. When I looked on the screens, there were world-class individuals doing amazing things, and I couldn’t help but compare myself to them. I also tried to become my peers: many of my high school peers were good at basketball, and I tried so hard to become like them. But I couldn’t. I was the kid whom no one wanted on their team, and even when I got picked, no one passed me the ball—instead of being a player, I was running around the court like a useless meatbag.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that I was like a monkey trying to win a swimming race. All the people I compared myself with were amazing at their own thing, and I was deriving my self-worth by how good I was at their thing. That’s crazy! That realization was the genesis of a story I wrote months ago: The Story Of Powie And Coatl, which I still reread once in a while.

There are few people I genuinely like to be around with, and they have one similar trait: they make me feel free. I don’t need to fake anything; I don’t feel tense around them. On the other hand, there are freedom restrictors: Their presence tenses me up, and being around them feels like walking on eggshells—I need to be careful in what I say and do. Usually, freedom restrictors are needy, high-conflict people who take things too seriously.

There are people out there whom you can have symbiotic relationships with. You make them happy by being yourself; they make you happy by being themselves. Why bother with high-conflict people?

One bullshit I keep saying to myself is “just one video.” Of course, that’s a big fucking lie because I always end up in some deep, weird rabbit-hole 4 hours later. The topic and medium doesn’t matter so long as I’m distracted enough—it could be Twitter, YouTube, Wikipedia, Reddit, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. What sort of things could I create if I wasn’t distracted all the time?

I remember that wooden bench and the strawberry ice cream; I remember the Nintendo DS you borrowed me in that ultra-boring biology class; I remember those times when we talked until 2 AM about your relationship; I remember that incident where you tried to hack my computer to snoop into my private messages; I remember that blue lunch box you carried for me because my hands were full; I remember that tense argument over some stupid homework, which in the end, didn’t matter; I remember how you smiled after you crushed me at chess thirteen times in a row; I remember that phone call where you showed signs of betrayal, which made me question the friendship; I remember that time when we walked around the grocery store and talked about coconut water for ten minute straight.

As I write these words, memories of friendship flash in my mind. I can see faces; I can hear sounds. Having belly laugh, getting backstabbed; late-night texts, cans of beer. It all feels like yesterday.

But after all these years, one fact is clear: friendship, no matter how sweet, fades. Maybe it was caused by boredom, or new friends, or minuscule conflict, or the lack of physical proximity, or divergence of common interest—I have no idea. Interesting friendship eventually turned bland and boring—like a bowl of unsalted chicken soup. And when the friendship reached that state, we tacitly parted ways. Perhaps it was meant to decay all along.

A minute ago, as I was building sandcastles with my best friend, Shae, there was an angel that appeared before me. The angel said, “I will show you your future.”

“Whaaaa—”

Where is this? I don’t know. Wait, wait, who’s that?

“That’s you,” the angel says.

“That’s me? What do you mean?”

“I have fast-forwarded time, and this is the glimpse of where you will be in 40 years.”

“What does glimpse mean?” I ask the angel.

“My gosh,” the angel sighs. “Okay, okay, little kid, forget about glimpse. Just think of this as a video that shows you who you will become.”

“Who I will become?”

“Yes, that person you’re seeing is you 40 years from now.”

“Oh, he has the same hair color as me! But wait, why are there so many bottles? One, two, three, four, uh, eight, nine, uh, sixteen, seventeen, uh, twenty-five, twenty-six?” I say with my fingers pointed at the bottles.

“Those are glass bottles.”

“Glass bottles? Why is he collecting glass bottles?”

“He’s not collecting it; he is drinking from it.”

“Why is he drinking that much water?”

“You see, little kid, those aren’t water,” the angel explains with slight hesitation. “Those are… alcohol.”

“What’s an alcohol?”

“It’s a drink that makes him happy.”

“Is it different from water?”

“Yes, it’s different from water.”

“But if drinking alcohol makes him happy, why does he look sad?”

The angel looks at me briefly, then looks away.

“Hey, you haven’t answered my question,” I say after some moments of silence.

“I want to show you something.”

“What do you want to sho—”

He’s crying—it’s not loud, but I can see his tears. He wipes his tears with his left forearm, and he keeps on wiping, and drinking, and wiping, and drinking, and wiping, and drinking, and wiping.

“Hey, if alcohol makes him happy, why is he crying?”

“Little kid, I think I’ve given the wrong explanation. He drinks alcohol not to feel happy, but to run away from his sadness.”

“Wait, that means, I’ll be that sad!”

“Yes.”

“Why is he sad?”

“Because he has many problems.”

“What does problem mean?”

“Uh, problem is, uh, problem.”

“Problem is problem?”

“Problem is, uh—you know—bad things.”

“So I will have bad things, which will make me sad, and I will drink alcohol to not be sad?”

“Yes, yes; you’re such a bright kid.”

“But what abou—hey look, look, he’s going to bed!” I exclaim as I point my finger.

Instead of using his forearm to wipe his tears, he now uses his pillow. Three glass bottles nearby, he drinks from it every few sobs and pillow-screams. Why does he cry so much? Are the bad things that bad?

“Will I be that sad?” I ask.

“Yes, you will be that sad.”

“But I’m happy; why will I be sad?”

“Because you will have many problems.”

“And I will drink alcohol to not be sad?”

“Yes; not now, but yes.”

“Why do you show this to me?”

“You are such an inquisitive—and bright—little kid. I’ve done what I’m told to do, and it’s best if I send you back to where you were.”

“Hey! Answer my quest—”

What, uh, sandcastles? Oh, that’s Shae. But hey, the angel hasn’t answered my question!

A neighborless cottage at the edge of a forest,

society and its neon lights nowhere to be found.

Wild birds perform orchestra on the roof;

cats and dogs frolic to-and-fro on the lawn.

·

Cookware sits still inside the kitchen;

groceries abundantly available in the pantry.

Every meal on the table is eaten with gratefulness,

for the wish of something better doesn’t arise.

·

The grand piano stands silently in the corner,

wishing to fill the room with its notes.

Sun shines downward, night lamp shines upward;

sometimes beauty reveals itself in the dark.

·

Whether there is activity or passivity,

all things start and end without interference.

The creature called “tomorrow” doesn’t exist,

for the “today” is complete in and of itself.

They’re with you at all times.

When you go for a walk, you take them with you; in your private sanctuary, you also take them with you. After you wake up, you greet them; before you sleep, they sing you lullabies. When you work, they disturb you; when you eat, they entertain you. When you’re confused, they tell you what’s true; when you’re not asking, they tell you what to do. When you speak, you do so on their behalf; when you think, you can hear their voice inside you. There are real humans around you, but you don’t see them; your dog wants to play with you, but you’re nowhere to be found.

I sometimes find myself watching videos of Tiger Woods playing golf. The commentators use words like birdie, chip, putt, tee, driver, bogey, and various different golf-related words. I barely know what these words mean, and I don’t care—I just want to watch Tiger!

When I watched him won the 2019 Masters, I got goosebumps. Club hit ball, numbers shown on the screen; I didn’t even understand what was going on, but my heart was captivated with whatever he was doing on the golf course.

What makes Tiger Woods so captivating?

P.S. Here’s the video I’ve watched most. The crowd, the cheers, the hugs; fist in the air, smiles everywhere. (I still get goosebumps.)

Ah, video games. I remember those days: young and dumb, I squandered a massive chunk of my teenage years in it. I played this game, then that game, then that other game the cool guys were playing—the cycle went on and on. When I dressed up my character with expensive apparels, I felt good; when I clicked circles without missing a beat, I felt good; when I slayed a big dragon with my might sword, I felt good; when I beat my friends and won against them, I felt really, really good.

I spent, literally, more than ten-thousand hours on those things. Badges, ranks, numbers, weapons, levels, wins; what was all that for? It’s one thing if those obsession led me to world-class-ness, but I sucked at everything!

It was frivolity at its finest.

Sometimes I wonder how high my talents would’ve soared had I spent those time pursuing my talents instead.