Golf: A lesson on commitment (first draft)

The smell of freshly cut grass and the sound of golf balls churning within the ball dispenser machine; these are all familiar sensations from long ago, brought again to the forefront of my mind after so many years. This was not really a happy place, nor was it a sad place. It was the place that I have often ended up after being awoken at 7 in the morning on weekends when I didn’t have school. You may ask, who has classes during weekends, how is that even possible? But I did. Life as a child with Asian parents is never carefree, and when one finds oneself far from one’s place of origin, it is paradoxically even less so. I never regretted my childhood or lack of one; it is what gives me the discipline to excel, to be good at time management, at organizing my time so I can have a life outside of the rigidity of the activities planned for me. For Asian parents, however, mine were probably more on the lax side. 

Signs of Life

She sees the world in black and white, with no colours. Feelings come to her slowly, or not at all, but mostly she just feels like she is living under a sky in perpetual threat of rain, and the fear of not being able to find shelter in time. In her world there is no asylum, no one to trust and none of the ships have safe harbours. Despite all this, she is not afraid of getting hurt; she lives life in total abandon, like a leaf fallen from a tree, constantly drifting, borne along the current of a merciless wind. Or is it because she is too afraid of getting hurt? Maybe she thinks that hiding behind a facade of apathy will lead others to accept her because she has nothing to lose. There is something about her twisted sense of logic that I understand, but the strands are so tangled that there is no way it could have ever been logical to begin with. Pretty soon, there will be no sign of life behind her facade at all, and I am scared that I will not be able to save her from this process of self-decay.

Foreign Blood (Masochist)

I cringed again as I dipped the silver-tipped needle into the vial of crimson liquid, pulling up the plunger to the syringe with meticulous care to get the precise amount. Closing my eyes, I grabbed the syringe and stabbed it into my arm, not caring where it sank as long as the blood made it into my veins with as little resistance as possible. There were so many pinpricks in my body now; pretty soon I would be covered in nothing but holes. My skin continues to heal, however, and every time I examine, there would be an empty patch just begging to be violated.

I waited with baited breath as the blood began to take its effect, the next part that I could never get used to. I gasped as a roiling sensation had me on all fours, my immune system struggling to comprehend this unexpected, nonsensical invasion by alien blood cells. What was perplexing was how despite the many times that I had done this, these planned invasions always caught my system by surprise, the pain never lessening with each time as sharp as the times before. I tried hard just to focus on breathing, hoping that this time it would finally kill me, but also fearing that it would.

I hated myself for being so weak, constantly making excuses for myself in my head, telling myself that I could not help doing what I do because I am unwell. As if psychological frailties could ever hold the key to all my answers! As the battle within me subsided, I was wrung out with exhaustion, heap of rags on the floor. Already I was thinking of the next hit.

You would think that fighting for your life continuously would make you appreciate living more, but all I want is for mine to end…and oblivion.

My Generation

You can save all your indignation about how my generation is worse than yours, how things were so much simpler and how there was so much more quality to relationships when you were young. Maybe you are right about some of those things you hate us for, the parts about us loitering around the 711s, breaking glass bottles...wait, are you sure that was just my generation?

The Twisted Road

I look back and see the twisted road, the empty faces and the saturated smiles. The lost key in the locked car, the red ribbon trailing behind me on the floor, a way home I will never take. I've got empty pockets but there's still a way out for me. No light ahead only headlights behind me. A harsh glare and the Doppler washes away to the west, the path of a dying sun. As the sparrow's wings eclipse the moon, I wonder where my feet are taking me, each step an effort.

Geoff

It feels like the way it should feel, strapping on the helmet, slapping down the visor and pulling on the well worn leather gloves. They say road rash hurts a lot, and they never lied. I have fallen so many times on this bike and was almost killed once when I skidded on a pool of oil in the middle of the highway. Each time, he had been there to help me up, to guide me as I safely steer my scratched up bike back on the road. I love the feel of the wind breezing through the tips of my hair not under the helmet, the freedom of riding this road to the end at unhampered speeds. I feel light riding this bike, almost as if the wheels were not touching the ground. Almost as if we were borne on wings. It gets claustrophobic under the helmet sometimes and the visor decreases visibility as much as lab goggles sometimes do.