Summer, Summer, Summer!

The smell of summer is in the air. The sweet fragrances fill our nostrils. Flowers on trees bloom. The days are longer and the nights warmer. Nothing can compare to the beauty of summertime. It's a kiss. It's a smile. It's a sip of wine. There is no greatest happiness than watching a star-strewn sky, or feeling the touch of a quick summer breeze caress your face.

Summer anthems play loudly, reminding us that youth is at its loveliest. Sweet memories float before our eyes, a smile drawn on our lips; all is well.

School is out. Summer stretches ahead of us like a sweet promise. The sense of peace and absence of urgency overcome us. The sun on our faces, water flowing beneath us, fireflies lighting up the way.

Our romance with summer is short-lived, addicting, but worth the post traumatic breakup disorder. It has no precedent. It's more satisfying than an actual relationship, and there are no strings attached. Once it's over, it's over. And no amount of begging will make it change its mind. For summer, there are no do-overs or second chances. Only the present.

We fall in love with summer, because summer is good to us. Summer brings pleasure into our lives. It brings hope, adventure, adrenaline. Summer makes sure we are happy. Or rather, we make sure we are happy in summer. Summer takes us to wonderful places, buys us beautiful things, and whispers sweet nothings in our ear. Summer is the partner every person needs.

With summer arise new opportunities. Opportunity to have a summer fling. Opportunity to travel. Opportunity to reinvent ourselves. Opportunity to recharge our spirit. Opportunity to start new friendships. Opportunity to do what we've always wanted to do.

Opportunities sail with the wind, unrestrained and wild, lying in wait for the next person who snags them.

Summer jolts our world-weary bodies into action. Our eyes explode in surprise, our mouth stretches into an O, and we see, for the first time in months, the full colors of life.

Summer is about starting over, and letting go of could've, would've and should've.

What Are You Reading This Summer?

A vacation is never really a vacation unless I have a bewildering array of books to choose from. I enjoy summer not because I can lie on the beach, soaking up the sunshine, but because I can stay in--homework-free--and tackle the mountain of books awaiting to be read.

To take full advantage of all that summer has to offer, I have compiled a list of books I have or plan to read:

1. The Fault in Our Stars by John Green: Make sure you have a box of Kleenex at your disposal. This contemporary love story is not for the faint of heart. Green's best-selling novel helps readers navigate the road of star-cursed romance and heartbreak. If you're looking to shed a few tears, this is the novel for you. In John Green's world, love is stronger than the untimely alignment of the stars.

2. The Book of Unknown Americans by Cristina Henriquez: America is the land of promise, of opportunities and wealth. Or so we've been made to think. In Cristina Henriquez's novel the challenges of trekking to unforeseen land are explored. This novel brings forth a new definition of what it means to be an American.

3. The Opposite of Loneliness by Marina Keegan: The talented Yale graduate who died in a tragic car crash left behind a treasure trove of writing that is meant to inspire younger generations. Marina's writing is witty, comical, and universal. Her fiction and nonfiction is imbued with the wisdom of a young woman learning what it means to be young, alive, and full of expectations.

4. Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert: At age thirty-five, after moving with her husband to New York, Elizabeth realized that she wanted neither a child nor a husband. After a protracted divorce, she embarked on a yearlong trip across Italy, India, and Indonesia. Along the way, Elizabeth made three stops: Rome, for pleasure; Mumbai for spiritual reinforcement; and Bali for "balancing." Accompany Elizabeth on the journey through recovery and self-fulfillment, and be prepared to find adventure along the way.

5. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers: McCullers is the queen of freaks. While not a freak herself, McCullers made it her personal mission to give a voice to those who do not have one. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter  centers on John Singer, a deaf-mute who, despite his hearing impairment, becomes the confident of the town's losers. Touching and powerful, McCullers's characters stay in your mind indelibly.

World Cup Infatuation

Brace yourself: The World Cup is here.

While I'm not a soccer fan, during the month-long World Cup, I hatch into a full-blown soccer fanatic. There is something about sports that connect us to the world at large. We come together to show our support, to stand by our team as they score the winning goal or lower their heads in defeat. For the duration of the match, the world holds it breath and crosses its fingers as players on the field battle to claim ownership of the ball. I can't help but smile.

The world is brought together, one soccer match at a time. The best part of the World Cup is not the ridiculously handsome players or the rowdy but good-natured crowd. The best part is the simple joy it gives us. While soccer may not explain the confounding mechanisms of the universe, it makes the world a slightly happier place. As the excited roar of the crowd gains momentum, I know the world will tune in to watch the soccer battle unfold. Different cultures merge into one. Strangers greet strangers with open arms. They have been brought together for one reason: to experience the momentary joy of sports.

Nothing is more gratifying, or pleasing, than witnessing players shake hands with the opposing team. This moment solidifies the irrefutable truth that we are created equal. In the eyes of the universe, we are the same. In the eyes of soccer, we are the same. In the eyes of the spectators, we are the same. During these times of fever pitch, we overcome racism, all forms of intolerance, and individualism. And instead, we trust that teamwork will lead us to victory.

There are many ways to show our support, but the most important is to recognize that talent is a gem hidden in ordinary places. The youngest child of a cook and a municipal gardener is now the world's highest-paid soccer player. The child born and raised in a third world country reached the upper echelons of soccer. The boy whose abilities were questioned is now a professional player. We show our support, and patriotism, during the final match, when the winners finally are crowned, when fireworks drown out the clamor of the crowd. All we can do is smile.

There is more to the World Cup than a ball rolling across the field. The World Cup is the adhesive that for the ephemeral months of June and July glues the fragments of a world considered to be divisive. The World Cup gives us something to look forward to, something that will lift our crushed spirits and world-weary souls. It gives us excitement.

While I don't own a T-shirt featuring my favorite team, I do have enough lung capacity to scream at the screen. Whoa! Go Messi!

The Inside Room

We all have an inside room--the secret place where the soul is dismantled at its core, examined, and put together in a different form. My inside room is a dwelling of half-formed thoughts, soundless words, restless voices. It is a place so private, so sacred, that I dare not open the door. It is neither here nor there. It lays half on reality, half on fantasy. In my inside room there are no boundaries. All bets are off. Anything and everything can happen. Sometimes it stirs in me a feeling of premature nostalgia so profound that it brings tears to my eyes. Its walls are white. It is a creepily sterile room. It is furnished with words, words, and words. It understands, reassures, and validates. I'm safe inside. Safe, unharmed, vulnerable. I lay down the weapons I wield. I break down the walls standing between me and the Self. There are no walls. No obtrusion. No dam. Water flows freely, rapidly. It keeps me afloat. Heading everywhere and nowhere. Suspended between the promises of the present and the regrets of the past.

The inside room casts a white, blinding glow. It washes over the surface, drives out the darkness, purifies the psyche. Its glow white as snow, deadly as ice. The outline of words barely visible. Their transparency revealing their honesty. No walls stand before me. They've been taken down, disintegrated into debris.

The white room--the inside room--hums with energy. Unadulterated energy. Its aura strong enough to throw me against the wall. Strong enough to empower me. Strong enough to vanquish the fears lurking in the shadows.

The inside room is particularly restless. There is too much going on. There is not one moment of silence. Only noise. Head-throbbing noise. Voices whisper lies, rousing fear in me. They tell me I'm not good enough, will never be good enough. I know that is a lie. A cruel lie. 

But did I mention the inside room is squared into four smaller rooms? I didn't? Well, come closer and find out:

The first room contains Aspirations. What and who I will become are safely guarded in this room. The door is ajar, but I do not peek in. Inside there is an embryo. It nourishes on hard work and blood. With each accomplishment it grows. Soon, it will have evolved into a baby. This baby is the future. This baby is me, the what and who I will become. The baby, soon-to-be a toddler, doesn't cry; it falls and then gets up. 

Go down the hall, on your left, you will come across the second room: Imagination. I have made of this room a comfort zone. The surreal and romantic weave together, creating artwork and beauty which words cannot capture. Higher forces reside in this room. Call them Inspirations, Muses, God, Spirit Guides, Intuition--whatever you call them they connect me to something larger than myself. I am the piece of a puzzle once thought to be incomplete. I matter. 

Across Imagination there looms a black door. Fear. It deceives you, costumes itself up in fine clothes, traps you. Its smooth talk soon becomes menacing. Real smooth talker, fear is. O, but do not be fooled, for it wants to harm you, witness the destruction of your soul, consume the universe within. I try to stay away from this room, as far away as humanly possible. 

Next to Fear  stands a worn-out door. Splinters of wood jut out, paint peels off, scratches mark the surface. Greet Anxiety. Cold air sweeps over this room. Do not enter or else the monster of doom will latch onto you. You--the only living thing for miles around. In the event curiosity convinced you to ignore my warning, I suggest you laugh at the monster, ridicule him, pretend it's not real. I find it humorous. Two heads, a green and scaly body, clawed feet. Forked tongue. Smelly breath. A brain too small for a head too big. 

Anxiety is the mistress you try to hide but still manages to show up unexpectedly. She's cunning, beautiful, yet deadly. One single dose of her love and she will paralyze you, turn you to stone. She is a child of the night, an unclean spirit. When exposed to sunlight, she bursts into flames, crumbles into ashes. Oh, but she encapsulates the true meaning of immortality, for, no matter how many times you try to kill her, she can't die. She is a lion, scouring the streets in search of a new prey, sniffing the air for an unfamiliar scent. Beware. This room is off-limits.

The inside room abounds with surprises. I am curious and interested at what I will find next. All I can do is sit and wait out the suspense. This rich inner world is also perilous territory. The temptation to venture far is too great. And if you're not careful, you will lose your way.

The room closely resembles a circle, for it has neither a beginning nor an end. It can give great aesthetic pleasure, but it can too carry in the wind the particles of human imperfection. 

There is a star-strewn universe in us. Brilliant. Mind-blowing. Unique. But also dangerous. I feel safest when I step through to the blackness of this universe, this my inside room, home.

Open the door and brace yourself.

Even Friendships End

Everything comes to an end. School, love, friendships, everything. Nothing lasts forever. Not the universe. Not our bodies. Nothing. One day we will crumble and break, and there's nothing we can do to stop it. As my high school career draws to an end, I cast my mind back to the years that have been leading up to this moment. I've been looking forward to graduation since day one of my freshman year. I despised going to school, not because I didn't enjoy learning, but because I didn't belong. What clique was right for me? In my smaller-than-average high school, I didn't have many choices. In fact, sometimes it seemed I had no choice whatever. Instead I decided to keep to myself. I buried my nose in books and got lost in thoughts of a more pleasant reality. I was lost. I drifted aimlessly from daydream to daydream, with no direction or purpose. I was a zombie, plodding along and not caring one bit. 

I stopped caring; I had no friends. I was lonely. Numb. Anxious. The feeling of not belonging clung to me, like tiny droplets clinging to blades of grass. But I learned to cope. I dealt with it. I found refuge in words. I found comfort in nature. So long as I wasn't the target of taunts, I figured I could learn to live as a ghost floating through life. It wasn't until this year, after the worst was over, that I learned the true meaning of friendship. 

I didn't know what a true friend was. I didn't know if I would ever meet a true friend, but I did. I met more than one. 

I don't want to define other people's meaning of friendship, but I can define mine. Or at least I can take a crack at it. 

A friend is someone who is willing to leave class with you, go outside, and dissipate your fears. A friend is the person who will laugh at your jokes, no matter how stupid or lame they are, and still pretend you're funny. A friend is someone whose silence is not at all awkward, but an unspoken understanding that you need some time to yourself. A friend is someone who takes delight in your success. A friend is someone who doesn't care what you wear. A friend will embrace your quirks. A friend won't ask you to do something you don't want to do. A friend is someone who won't push their beliefs on you. A friend won't laugh at your most embarrassing moments. A friend isn't self-centered. A friend will claim you're the best at what you do and mean it--even though you know otherwise. A friend is honest. A friend will motivate you. A friend will praise your accomplishments. A friend does not let jealousy fester her heart. A friend won't judge you. A friend is loyal. A friend will not stand by and witness your destruction. A friend is a reminder that not everything is bad. A friend does not hold grudges. A friend does not think meaningful conversations are a waste of time. A friend is patient. A friend keeps you sane. A friend will not put you down. A friend is a sort of therapist. A friend will always be there. A friend is a treasure, so cherish it. 

I can count with one hand the number of people for whom I've been genuinely happy. I'm stubborn, nonconformist, and not easy to get along with. Those who have gotten to know me can attest to that. These people, however, have proved themselves loyal. They have been patient and accepting. They have been friendly and non-judgmental. And they've each earned a special place in my heart. I wish them the best of luck. 

Unfortunately, our time together is coming to and end, and I regret not approaching them sooner. 

I find comfort in knowing that, once we graduate, once we go our separate ways, the echo of our memories will linger on.

We Are Young

“No adolescent ever wants to be understood, which is why they complain about being misunderstood all the time.” - Stephen Fry

Our parents want what's best for us, but what's best for us isn't always what we want. My generation wants freedom, freedom, and freedom. We can no longer bear the rules imposed on our parents by their parents. We wants to express ourselves, set our own expectations, and beam with delight at our accomplishments. Our accomplishments, not our parents'. We want to achieve the impossible while losing ourselves in daydreams. We want to be overcome by a sense of infinite possibility. We want to feel as though we can do anything we want...anything. With the Internet at our disposal, the possibilities are endless. We are more than ever before surrounded by a plethora of information. The world is one-click away; we want to take advantage of all that it has to offer. We thirst to prove ourselves, to the world, and say that we have enough common sense to make our own decisions. We are young, too young. We know more than we give ourselves credit for. Our knowledge is--and will always be--an ever expanding balloon. We are talented, creative, and inventive, but we'd sooner seek adventures than stay home, playing the role of well-behaved children. We like to lean out of the window and let the wind take us to far away places. We are unique. We are rebels. We do what we expect of us, not what's expected of us. We are singers. We are writers. We are painters. We are scientists. The world of  our parents has lost its luster. We want a small but perfect piece of infinity. We want to build it, shape it, dismantle it, and rebuild it. We want to start at the bottom and build our way up to the top. We don't want to hold our parents' hands anymore. We don't want to hold anyone's hand anymore. We are pillars. Strong and invincible. We are trees that have weathered difficulty, suffered through storms, and endured lightning strikes. Yet our will remains intact. We believe nothing will make us crumble. We are the indestructible generation. We follow our heart's desire, indulge in pleasurable activities, and heinously disregard most rules. It's who we are. It's who we strive to be.

We want to be heard. Our voices are loud. They ring with laughter. The echoes follow. We make noise. We can't be defeated. We think ourselves powerful. We make mistakes, mutter I'm sorry, and move on. Our throats throb and clog, but we emerge stronger than ever before. We are young, yet we seem to believe time is running out. That it's somehow too late. We fear that which we cannot understand, but we can't help being drawn by it. We want more than what we have. We want to be young forever. We want freedom. We want the forbidden. We don't want expectations. We want to be ourselves. We numb the pain, hurt ourselves, and emerge stronger than yesterday. We deem ourselves indestructible. We dip our fingers into a jar of paint, smear them all over a canvas, and leave our fingerprints behind. The world is at our finger tips. We are naïve. We still believe in fairy tales and in happy endings. We cling to the fragments of a dream and refuse to wake up. We walk around with blank stares, concealing the world behind our eyes. We are strong. We swallow our feelings, struggle to keep afloat, and follow the current. We are young, too young. Life is but a winding path stretching ahead of us, which we must set upon and journey alone. But that's okay, because we are young. We think we can do it all, and we can. We are realistic; we wish the impossible. Because we are young. So young. Full of life. High on dreams. Motivated to live. Young.

The Potter Theory

I wasn't a fan of Harry Potter until recently. I didn't understand the Potter mania--my inner adult simply rolled her eyes and thought it riddikulus (get it?). Witches and wizards were overrated. In my world, witchcraft is not to be trifled with. We refuse to acknowledge the existence of witches simply because we tremble at the sight of those who dabble in the dark arts. On the other hand, Harry Potter was inoffensive, even childish. Where's the harm in Dementors? Lord Voldemort? A few magical creatures? A few years passed and I began to cook up my own interpretation of the series (with maturity comes the ability to see what most children can't). The world of Harry Potter, at first glance, seems magical, but it is far more complex than we imagine. Harry Potter is, to the examining eye, the extended metaphor of a boy suffering from delusions writ large.

Harry Potter is an orphan. All he knows is a miserable life with the Dursley, his aunt and uncle, and their nasty son Dudley--a big spoiled bully. Harry lives in a tiny room at the foot of the stairs, with nothing but the company of spiders and a few tin soldiers. A child needs external stimulation--friends, family, love--to develop into a well-balanced young man. Harry was deprived of the most essential commodities of life--food, kindness, clothes. In addition to enduring starvation, Harry was exposed to the toxicity of physical abuse. On several occasions, he mentions that "Dudley's favorite punching bag was Harry". He wore glasses held together by Scotch tape because Dudley often punched him on the nose. His aunt and uncle are doubtless complicit in this abuse. Harry is not only a wizard; he is, too, the ne plus ultra of a domestic abuse victim. The intimations of neglect are there; it is simply a matter of looking past wands and cauldrons.

Harry, in an effort to escape, and cope with, the nightmare that is his life, develops a fantasy world where is famous, rich, and surrounded by friends. According to J.K. Rowling, she has heard it suggested to her that Harry did in fact go mad in the cupboard. Of course, anyone who spends a big chunk of his life imprisoned in a tiny room is prone to lose his mind sooner rather than later. Harry's ability to create an alternate universe is called the Fantasy Coping Theory. Throughout much of the series, Harry, while at Hogwarts, is sent to the hospital no less than six times. Whilst his friends visit the infirmary for having their skin complexion altered to resemble cornflakes, Harry often sustains more common injuries (a broken arm, a cracked skull, etc). Harry, fearing the truth will earn him a punishment, concocts elaborate stories to explain the severity of his wounds. It is not uncommon for victims of domestic abuse to understate the extent of the cruelty to which they are subjected. I fell off my broom while playing a game of Quidditch. Harry seemed to have prolonged the lies as best he could.

The mind is a powerful tool. There is a key, buried deep, that unlocks wonders extending beyond human imagination. There have been instance in which the mind has given rise to superhuman powers (telekinesis, premonition, etc) in times of extreme crisis or stress situations. Harry most likely relied on his mind to maintain his sanity. It makes sense. If we had a choice between relentless beatings or magic realism, we'd of course choose the latter. There is no competition. Harry resorted to fantasy in order to survive. Our species will go to any lengths to perdure, even if it means building a school of witchcraft and wizardry out of thin air.

There were some instances in the series in which characters hinted that it was all in Harry's head. The Sorting Hat, for instance, told Harry that he "could be great, you know, it's all here in your head..." Was Hogwarts a figment of Harry overly wild imagination? Or was it a mental institution? The deepest scars are those we cannot see. There is only so much a young boy like Harry can tolerate, and provided he endured a degree of physical abuse, it would not be at all surprising to learn that he landed in a mental institution.

Let's not forget about Lord Voldemort. In the series Harry and Lord Voldemort share a connection. There is a piece of Voldemort's soul living in Harry. If we took a psychological approach to explicate this connection, it would be argued that Voldemort is Harry's alter ego, the living embodiment of his bestial, hidden self. Voldemort is everything Harry is not: evil, power-hungry, ruthless. Harry was unfortunate enough to lose his parents and resign himself to the neglect of his "family." It is surprising he managed to repress his anger for over a decade. However, less surprising is the fact that Voldemort is a personification of Harry's anger, frustrations, and dashed hopes. Basically, Harry (the superego) is in a dark cellar forever engaged in mortal combat with Voldemort (the id). At the end, the superego emerged victorious, as it once more suppressed the urges of the id.

Whether Hogwarts was a product of Harry's insanity or indeed real, we will never know. The answer depends on how much you're willing to believe.