GRINDING IT OUT

carpe diem. living with purpose.

and more than that, seize each moment. whenever you can, reflect on how you lived. what was wrong, what was right. perfect the steps, and finally boom whoosh tooosh swoosh we are here. be hyper aware.

there are 3 things i am passionate for, that i would love to have a career in or dealing with.

ping pong.
music.
writing.
1. unreasonable, but a great hobby. professional ping pong player? i am unreasonable, but only ... come on.
2. have the heart dont have the gifts. but becomes one of the most important fuels for the next.
3. out of all three, though it may not be the most enjoyed, writing is the most significant. easily. it adds a certain depth i could never hope to find with ping pong. a certain range i can't express musically. it allows me to be one dimensional and multi. it is the best of me, the worst of me, and everything in between of me. day 1. today. i don't mind starting over every so often, especially when i fail. failure is inevitable. if i am lost, help me up.


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     The rain was falling heavy now. I always hoped to clear away my blinds and find that rainbow painted across the sky. That would be the day i could stop writing, put on a green suit, and become a professionally inspired lunatic leprechaun. Coming from southern California, where rain was only found in textbooks and novels, i was depressed to be under the clouds so much. I traded blue skies and yellow sun for gray clouds and coffee. And it always put me in a thinking mood. As i traced the vein in my right arm, the poet in me laughed; i traced my veins to the epitome of southern California sun.
     Reminiscing, i saw me; he was three inches shorter, madly in love, and cool - a certain air of confidence, a touch of awkwardness, but a breath of fresh air nonetheless. He had just met a girl - and how could i describe her? - though i forgot her now, i can trace with pen the words my smile and laughter spelled out whenever he spoke to her or about her. The girl of his dreams, for the next four years. Until i met her.
     Sarah worked as an assistant to my editor. The most intimate knowledge i have of her is that she likes to read horribly written magazines - learned over one coffee break. And we talked. And i learned she was with a significant other.
     "Look! He's adorable isn't he?" As four years her senior, i was like an older brother to her. And yet, she was beautiful to me. I pushed the picture away. "You could do better." She laughed with her abounding laugh. "stupid! just wait till you meet him."

A week ago, i caught her flustered, crying, beaten up. The man of her dreams had crushed hers and mine. All i could do while sitting with her in the cubicle was think of the words to mend a broken heart - and i would hear those words replay in my head - which set me thinking, "Damn. I'm a writer and the best i can do is soap opera romance?" I could have laughed. That was the longest day ever at the Print. I worked over-time with three new assistants who barely knew the alphabet.

While i was buttoning the bottom button of my stripe collared shirt, i received a phone call. Sarah. A surprise. My fingers trembling as if opening the door to heaven, my lips suddenly parched, i picked up.
"Wake up! Let's grab some coffee!" Maybe the stars were aligned. This was my one chance.

I rushed out the door, ran back inside for my keys, and saw the umbrella waiting for me inside. I tried to keep the door open and fingers were smashed by the metal, dumb apartment door.
"HOLY--" I saw my neighboor "BEAUTIFUL day, eh?" I feigned a smile. He was a pastor who always gave me pleading looks everytime i cursed. I learned to mind him, for my own sake. He only laughed and went into his apartment.
"Screw the umbrella." I mumbled to myself, clutching my long jacket closely over my body.
It was an ugly rainy day. But it was getting better. I had just seen tourists - had to be southern Californians who forgot what rain looked like - in jeans and t-shirts outside in the bloody cold rain. I was at least 400 feet from them and i could see them shivering and hear their teeth rattling. As i walked by, i laughed - only to be met with the saddest eyes i have ever seen. I felt like i was a father, and was heartbroken. I gave her my jacket. I felt like a good Samaritan, and smiled as i walked away.

And now i was as cold as the back storage room of a meet freezer in the middle of a New England winter. The cafe, Sorere's, was only two blocks away. I ran. I was excited. The only girl who exceeded expectations. I had been waiting for this day since i met her. To finally tell her my true feelings - to finally reproach this unrequited love, trade it in for mutual infatuation. Unsure of how she would respond, i began to search for answers : she brushed her hand against mine only three days ago, smiled at me every morning since i knew her, and laughed at every one of my jokes: even the car one that i had dropped like a dozen eggs. So she had to like me back. All the signs said yes. Or, she was a slut. But she went to Church.

Half a block away. I was smiling now. Despite the cold rain and the hours of sleep calling for me, I saw the lines of that smile reappear. A new memory beginning to form of a new stage of my life. A mature love, yet a recklessly true love. A storybook ending for a story writer. I could imagine the next best seller - "Dedicated to the love of my life, who helped inspire...."
I swear i was skipping. The busy streets were annoying in the rain and i was wet all over now. Everyone seemed to have a problem with me as they pushed and shoved their way further through me.

I turned the corner. I saw her through the window. Her jet-black straight hair, held behind her back by her two delicate ears. She was smiling with perfect gem teeth. She was as happy as i was. I began to shiver as a chill sped throughout my veins. Gray jacket - she would have matched with me. A picture perfect ending to the long days of waiting for her.

I was inside. She saw me, called me over: "Hey, Con, we got you decaf."
"Ah, thanks, i need to wake up."
She was beaming. I wouldn't trade her for the damn sun. "This is Marlow. The one i told you about."

It was the man of the picture. Except this time, he was real: i could talk to him, poke him, hear him. He was there, in the flesh. And i laughed. And laughed. And laughed.
All the while, thinking, "A storybook ending."