The one thing I regret the most out of the last four years is having so many regrets. On the long, laundry list of things that I regret, however, the one thing that reigns supreme is trust. I believe(d) that trust is center and core to any strong friendship, but somehow I was proven wrong. Somehow, I’m left feeling that I trusted all the wrong people, and I confided in all the wrong friends. Trust is my key to stability—and stability is something that I have always craved since I was a child but never found it, and still have not found it, in it’s right form.

I wouldn’t give anything to go back and redo any of this, however, it’s just so not worth it. I’m glad that I’ve managed (per the words of a friend) to make some new friends this year and I know that although I might not have confided in them my troubles, spending time with these guys have made senior year significantly better. And I guess that’s the lesson I’ve learned. That trust might not be the key, and I need to be more careful.

I’ve tried so desperately hard these past few months to let go of friendships that were perhaps doomed from the start, and ensure that the ones that can endure will last. I hate how easily people can change, but I guess I’ve changed as well. I’m done bitching at those few friends who I feel like don’t participate in the give-and-take that I find fundamental to any friendship, and ready to end those friendships on a good note, right after I say a big f*** you to them.

More than ever, I’m ready to close this last chapter and forget what needs to be forgotten, and put away what deserves to be remembered. I’ve sworn to myself I’m not going to let any of the people here or any event of the past hinder my future, and I’m confident I’ll be going into Wesleyan as myself—complete and whole—and stop believing in naïve and impossible ideals.

There isn’t a moment I don’t wish there are words that I can take back, but I think I’ve managed to figure out a way to deal with them being out there and move on. 

I’ve only met her in person three times in my life, and this was the fourth. I had just arrived home—well, home for the time being—from the airport. As everyone continued to go through their daily routines, I simply sat on the worn and weathered couch I recall looking the exact same ten years ago, trying to fight the desire to sleep and stay awake to avoid jet lag. There she sat, across from me, staring off into space. She was thin, emaciated almost, with the curvatures of each bone visible due to the slow breakdown of her muscle. Her skin was spotty and slightly discolored, and her hair a surprising grey—the elements of old age had failed to completely conquer her. Her teeth were perfect, the product of some unlucky dentist who had to go through the painful procedure to fit a set of fake teeth into the mouth of a ninety-year old woman. Everything about her seemed frail, from her slow yet graceful movements to her impossible attempts to stand up alone.

Her eyes, however, were different. Despite the aged and seemingly weathered skin surrounding her eyes, the eyes themselves seemed to be telling me a story. There was so much thought, innocence, desire, hope, fear, and sentimentality in her eyes. She was very much conscious alright, and although her physical self may be failing her, her eyes told me that she was fine, and still very much alive. The more I gazed into her eyes the more entranced I felt, the feeling that she was trying to tell me everything that the words she failed to produce couldn’t. It’s odd, this feeling is. I felt pain, I felt hurt, I felt sadness and I felt despair. I looked deeper trying to find some shed of happiness remaining, but it was nowhere to be found. She was strong, she is strong, and she will be strong. She doesn’t need anyone to help her, mentally that is.

She sits there, mumbling something I can’t understand, as it is not within my knowledge of Taiwanese or any other possible dialect. Someone translates; she’s talking about the similarities that I share with my dad and about what I was like as a kid. I’m absolutely amazed that she can remember all of this. How could she possibly remember I had an aunt on my father’s side when she could barely remember details of her own grandchildren, my mom, aunt, and uncles? Needless to say, I’m pretty baffled, and pleasantly surprised that she still recognizes who I am after an entire day. I feel like she understands someone by just looking at them, as if she can read me like a book by simply looking at my face.

I never want to be like this, yet I hope one day I will. 

I found this in one of my folders on my computer, it’s something I wrote last summer when I was in Taiwan. The person in question is my great-grandmother, who is probably suffering from Alzheimer’s. I found that moment with her just so peaceful and complex, I decided to write about it. I wish I found out what her story was and is.

I’ve been having a lot of random moments recently when I’d suddenly remember some random memory, and pause and reflect on it—whether it is good or bad. I’ve come across a lot of random memories, and I’ve been remembering a lot of things I’ve tried really hard to forget, as well as things that I’ve completely forgotten. 

It has really dawned on me that life is going to face some really drastic changes really soon. I realized that everything now, and from the last decade of my life, won’t matter as much or not matter at all in half a year. Every regret I’ve had, every mistake I’ve made, will finally slowly fade away, and the people I’ve known for years will slowly go into the background. 

I’m trying pretty hard to cement the friendships I want to take with me through life, and trying to move on from anything that has been holding me back. A new life is beginning, and I’m not going to mess it up this time around.

How to:

1. To move on.
2. To not be so clingy.
3. To read people better.
4. To not trust so easily.
5. To not take things so seriously.
6. To not let other people control my feelings so easily.
7. To not let one person ruin things.
8. To stop being so immature with difficult things.
9. To appreciate what I have.
10. To accept myself for myself.
11. To adapt to changing times.
12. To adapt to changing people.
13. To confront things the way they are.
14. To stop pursuing something I know is going to be useless.
15. To stop missing people who don’t deserve it.
16. To not hold onto an impossible ideal.
17. To not worry every living moment.
18. To understand all different perspectives.
19. To forget.
20. To forgive.

Put your right hand on your heart.

Ready?

Listen.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

From the day you are born to the day you die, your heart doesn’t stop beating. It keeps on pumping; it keeps on keeping on—keeping you alive. But think about it. For eight decades or so, it doesn’t get any rest. It never stops—it has to be strong enough to function for such a long period of time, and if it stops, even for a bit, chances are you’re gone.

Humans are cursed with the capacity to understand and appreciate death. When your heart stops, your body begins to shut down, and you lose your consciousness. The consciousness of your being, of your soul, of your life no longer exists in any shape or form in this world. But this is why life is so treasured, this is why we humans take such great measures to at least try and live a life “worth living,” all because we know the fate of all mankind is one and the same—we die.

When something is of limited supply to us, we want more and we make sure that we are more careful of that supply. If you see that your phone’s battery life is rapidly falling and may not last through the entire night, you’d take caution and not play Temple Run game after game. If you notice that gas prices are rising to ridiculous heights and money is tight, you’d leave your car in the garage and find another way. Life is the same—as we know there are a limited number of years we have, we treasure them and care for them more intensely than we would if we had an unlimited amount of years.

Life does gain meaning because it ends. Without death, life would lose its beauty because our time would be perpetual and lose emotion—it would lose the excitement, thrill, and anticipation we have in our lives. We know we have an expiration date, and that makes life all the better.

But there really is no point in fearing death. Life is like a one-time contract—when the term ends, there’s no renewal (unless you believe in rebirth as the Hindus and Buddhists do). I believe death is ultimate, and death is final. Death is the end, the absolute, unconditional, and complete conclusion of our lives. It’s difficult for me to believe anything about any sort of afterlife, because all the possibilities sound fairly dire to me.

A recent Time magazine’s cover story was titled “Rethinking Heaven,” discussing the possibility of us needing to rethink our conceived notions of heaven. Inside, however, it talked about not only the Christian heaven but also mentioned seven other heavens—that of the Buddhists, Tibetans, Hindus, Muslims, Jews, Taoists, and Zoroastrians.

The Christian faith believes that if you make it to heaven, you will enjoy all of eternity in the skies. The Buddhist’s Purl Land or Western Paradise is a place to live in enlightenment, while Tibetan Buddhists see it in Mount Kailasa of the Himalayas. Hindus see the Vaikuntha where the god Vishnu resides, and while Muslims and Jews do not have in-depth discussions of heaven in their holy books they do mention a different realm similar to that of Christians.

Those are all scary thoughts to me. It’s not the fact that you can “live” (living in death?) happily in these forms of heaven, but the fact that it’s eternal. Isn’t that what makes life so treasured and beautiful? If we are to be rewarded with the “gift” of eternal happiness and well-being, won’t it destroy the beauty, the happiness, and well-being we find in life?

Having no end frightens me to no end. Having an end to anything and everything makes it all better—you might finish the burger, but you’ll appreciate it more in the process. Would you really be enjoying “living” in the afterlife if there were no end? Without an end, life loses all definition, loses its substance.

I don’t want to live forever, in this life or in the afterlife. I wrote a short story previously titled “Singularity” (here), talking about a human-controlled afterlife in computers. I hoped to express this very fear—that everything should still come to an end, and that life needs to have its conclusion.

So I don’t fear death. I appreciate death, and I will welcome death when the time comes. Granted, I’m fearful of having my life end anytime soon, only because there is so much more in store that I want to experience—I want to live first.