Lost in The City of Blinding Lights

New York thrums with energy, day and night. The city transports those who dare to set foot in it to places unknown, where pulsing lights and shadows converge to form a city of illusions. With its looming buildings and concrete streets, New York can be a jungle of dreams or a maze of confusion. The many avenues and turns and shortcuts can leave those accustomed to small-town life gasping for air. Literally.

It is easy to get lost in the Big Apple, and even harder to find our destination. When you no longer can rely on maps and you're starting to break out in a profuse sweat, you need only to fall on your knees and pray for a GPS. (Especially if you don't have reliable WiFi access.)

A few days ago, while in NYC, I spent two hours looking for the subway station. Exhausted, I was about ready to catch the first train out of the city. I was not getting paid enough to do this. As a matter of fact, I was not getting paid at all. I could not bear the heat of the underground station. I could not bear the stench of rotting garbage or the overwhelming sea of people. The fumes of the train made my eyes water, and sweat plastered my hair to the nape of my neck. It hadn't occurred to me that I was deep in the heart of the city.

I don't like to ask for help. I'd much rather wander the streets in hopeless desperation than confess that my sense of direction has once again failed me. I don't know what that says about me. Through the years, I've employed a simple learning technique: Look closely for clues and figure it out. Everything I need to know is around me; it's only a matter of being aware of my surroundings. Too bad this same principle does not apply to New York's subway system. While it is no remarkable feat to familiarize oneself with the underground station (as many a people have done it in the past), I was on a tight schedule. I could not afford to while away the afternoon reading pamphlets and deciphering maps.

Finally, amid swearing and sweating, I found the PATH--the transit system linking New York to New Jersey urban communities. Soon after stumbling into the PATH, I paid the fare, boarded the train, and sighed with relief. This process, unlike what I'd gone through, was both comforting and familiar.

New York is a playground for adventurers. The thrill of trekking through unknown land and discovering hidden passageways attracts tourists all year round. With surprise lurking around every corner, who would want to miss out on the opportunity to explore the big city? There is a reason New York is lovingly dubbed the Big Apple. Good things don't always come in small packages.

New York forced me to shed the cloak I was hiding in. It reinforced a sense of independence that, despite unseen threats, managed to awake in me a desire to make the city my playground. I longed to swim amid blinding lights and colossal buildings, to weave my way through the twinkling stars that surround the city in a dreamy haze of endless summer.

The New York I love is built on a field of multicolored lights and cosmopolitan dreams. The New York I love is above ground, where it lures the ambitious into dreams of success and fame, knowing quite well that it is but an illusion--hard to let go of, yet easy to shatter.

The New York I love is a complicated network of streets and buildings which, despite its seemingly welcoming aura, is equally indifferent to the faint-hearted as to those looking for adventure. But once it warms your heart, it is hard to untangle yourself from its grasp--even if it made you lose your way and tested your patience.

Welcome to New York.

To Move or Not To Move

Moving into a new house can be both a life-changing experience and a thrilling adventure. Each person is unique in how he or she deals with change. Some responses are healthy coping mechanisms, while others may prove detrimental to one's well-being. All I know is that the process of leaving one’s childhood home, and crossing over into the realm of a new one, is depressing at best, and daunting at worst. These are the times that test my inner strength, and I'm smart enough to know I'm powerless to change what's already been set in motion.  

Third-party observers might be oblivious to the conflicting emotions clashing within me. But inside, a storm rages on. Without a warning, I steel myself as a wave of nostalgia crashes over me, tossing me against the rocks and leaving me floating face up. All the while the memories created through the years and the secrets whispered wash up on shore briefly, their essence slowly merging with the sea. 

Packing has stirred memories I thought I'd buried miles and miles beneath the earth's surface. 

The ghost of memories past floats around the room, uncontrollably and recklessly, unwilling to absent itself and plunging into the conscious mind, where it plays a movie which I know all too well--life. (A room which bore witness to adolescent angst, raging hormones and baser emotions, now awaits a new occupant.) Lingering in this hormone-filled space is the formidable spirit of youth, engrained in the fabric of this perfectly imperfect abode.

The air is redolent of dirty laundry and dust. A bookshelf stands in the far corner of the room. A myriad of books sit on the shelves (most vampire fiction), their pages bent and frayed—a sign they have been read one too many times. Their covers battered and abused. A thin layer of dust covers almost every square inch of this dimly-lit cave, no matter how many times I dust and vacuum. (Clearly a mischief from the god of dust.)

The drawers of a single dresser are half open. Underwear and socks spill out of them. Deodorants, a brush, and sanitary napkins, along with an undergraduate course catalog and my class schedule, clutter the surface of the dresser. I've never bothered to arrange them neatly; I’m not as organized a person as I've led myself to think.

Today, I packed a decade of books into five boxes, careful not to damage their fragile exterior. A decade of memories, of tears and accomplishments trapped in a room that witnessed my leap from childhood to adulthood. I spent a decade memorizing the smallest details: the pink walls, the popcorn ceiling, the chipped paint. A cobweb dangling above my bed. The desk covered with textbooks and magazines. A lamp. More dust. A wooden door. 

I weaved through boxes, knowing that in a few days' time I would be starting life elsewhere. 

It suddenly occurred to me that I expected our residence to be permanent. Change was slung at me like a boulder from a catapult, and I can’t help feeling the brunt of the blow. It’s always been inevitable. 

There will always be more opportunities to create new memories, to collect the little shells that we carry with us always--wherever we go, whenever we go.

Sick Sad Little Pet

So many of us have had to say goodbye to our beloved pet; so many of us have had to bury them; and so many of us were left heartbroken.

The death of a pet scars us in ways that we can't fathom into words. It is an immeasurable level of pain that few of us can bear to endure. I remember the day my dwarf hamster died. His name was Apollo and his behavior was more feline than rodent-like. He responded to the name I'd chosen for him, and he ate more food than was necessary. But none of that mattered, because he was all the more cuddly. The healthy glow about him belied his sickness. A tumor which had formed on his stomach grew to great magnitude, threatening to devour him inside. It struck silently, dangerously, finally snuffing out the life of a beloved friend. 

Apollo died in my hands. He writhed and wheezed and struggled to force air into his lungs, the tumor conducting one last attack. Lifeless he lay, the hamster who strove to be a cat and who ate voraciously. The hours leading up to Apollo's burial proved to be distressing, and I refused to take part in the ritual. I could not bury my friend; I hadn't the heart. My dad dug a hole in the yard and lowered Apollo's make-do coffin into the grave. His final resting place. 

I have long since coped with the death of Apollo, but every now and again, I am reminded of the pain of his absence. However, I know, deep down, that my friend has crossed over Rainbow Bridge--a place in heaven reserved for our dearest friends.

Two years later, I rescued a goldfish and took him under my wing. Two days later, he died. The cause? Underoxygenation. Down he went, eyes vacant and bulging, in a swirling tornado of toilet water, navigating the tunnel that will show him Rainbow Bridge. 

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.