holding onto things

Sometimes you love something so much
you don't want to let it go.

Sometimes you love something so much
you let it go--
you let it go trusting that
when it catches wind in its glory and mystery,
it is beautiful and ugly,
it flies--laughing, crying, falling, trying,
and you realise that it is bigger than you.
And that it will always be bigger than me.
So I do the only thing I know how to:

Because it is love.

I fly with it.

*

Body and mind has been a little more unsettled these few days because of me contemplating life next semester and just dwelling on some decisions I should make. And I was reminded of this piece of writing I wrote before I flew back to the US this summer and it somewhat resonates with me today but maybe not till the very end yet--putting it here for me to dance with and make more sense of.

Loved Ones

People talk about wanting to spend those special moments with those they love and celebrate happiness together. But I feel like I don’t want just that. I also want to spend the bad, horrible, and disgusting times with you. I want to know how it feels like to get sick of you and be mad or upset with you. I want to go through failure or grief or loss with you together and figure out what does tension mean in our relationship. Because I want to learn how that feels like and how we can navigate that, not just alone in our angered and distant states that drive us apart, but in the moments of supporting and finding humility in ourselves and each other despite discomfort, in the times of change, strengths, and flaws we both possess, and emerging from it and deciding: do I/do we still want to do this together? As much as I may be upset, mad, or downright hate you in moments, maybe there is that ridiculous gut feeling--or feelings of the heart and mind--that I still want to hold your hand through it and fight these monsters together. It’s not going to be easy. But who said that fighting monsters were? Maybe it just takes an occasional reminder like this one to put things into perspective in all the adventures, decisions, and choices we CHOOSE to make. Or let go. And maybe that is okay too.

*

thoughts on love on a sleepy friday morn.

things that life, especially my kids at Wediko have made me realise what I feel so strongly about--values I twirl in my head when contemplating the complexities of life.

A Letter to Sleep

Dear Sleep,

Thank you for always being there for me.  I’m sorry that these past couple of weeks, I have not been there for you.  I have been sporadically in and out of your life at irregular times throughout the day and night.  I think people don’t understand how much you mean to me and how much my mental, emotional, physical health, and sanity rely on you.  You have been the one true escape I had from the world that never ceases to overwhelm me faster and more intensely than other people around me.  I have always experienced a profound calm knowing that I can let everything in my sight and mind go for 8 or so hours every day.  Sometimes, I feel like nobody will understand how much I need sleep to function—not just in terms of getting rest but being able to escape the world I sometimes feel I am not made for.  To put my emotion regulation skills and capacity to socialize with people, manage different expectations of other people and myself—all of these, I have always felt, have been things I need to work extra hard on to get the same outcome as everyone else around me.  

This semester or these couple of weeks, two of my loves have been taking up more than healthy portions of my life and cut into my time with you.  My job as an EMT has been my love but I forget how much it rocks my sleeping cycle on Friday nights. Coupled with this Div III project I am living, eating, and breathing, it has pushed me to the brink of irregular sleeping habits, bad boundary setting, and just unhealthy immersion of self going in over my head over my project. I have been struggling with drawing lines between me time and project time and I think it has been too overwhelming for me, especially when I feel like the whole world is different from me.  Like I have to try so hard to just be at the same output level as everyone else every day.

I guess this letter has no real objective.  I am just writing this to let you know what’s going on because it’s been so frustrating and upsetting for me to try to sleep earlier than 3am because my sleeping clock is just rocked from the night I had a Friday shift with a 3am call—please know that I get so frustrated at myself.  And even more so when morning comes and I try so hard to wake up at 9am and either succeed and feel groggy the whole day or fail and repeat the late night cycle. I can't remember the last time I really had much appetite to eat and so I've been trying really hard not to succumb to just skipping a meal.

I am writing this to you because I feel you may be one of the only ones who can truly understand how overwhelming it is and how anxious I get about myself, about what other people think, and how the world is.  And I’ve just been feeling all these feelings intensify and having lesser time and consistent capacities to just shut the world and its worries out of my mind and body for 8 hours.  

Thank you for understanding me and allowing me to breathe and just exist in your space.  Thank you for making me feel like you take extra care of me for being more overwhelmed by the world than other humans—and not needing me to try and justify or explain myself.  Thank you for helping let go of things I cannot change, put difficult emotions, anxiety, and thoughts aside for a night, and most importantly, for accepting me for my whole self.

Your underdog,

Andrea

The Mystery of Trees

There is empty space between us.

I want to think that it sounds like waves crashing but I have a feeling that it’s just white noise of separate worlds across the sea.  It is a void of shared beginnings growing in two separate directions and I do not know if they are the same.  

I think about growth and all its beauty. 

I think about change and the ugliness it can entail.

And I wonder if they are the same things.

The plantling is sprouting leaves it doesn’t think it has, in directions it doesn’t know exists.  Its roots will always be grounded to the earth - it is what keeps it alive, thriving from the nutrients and water from the soil.  But when the seasons change, it needs to shed its leaves, as beautiful as they were in the summer.  But just before it falls in fall, it dances its most amazing fiery dance in the most surreal colours of blazing orange-yellow-red, stroking the blue sky in the wind - it is at its most beautiful.  Even as the leaves find its next home on green-brown ground at the foot of the tree, it realises that it has returned to the very roots it first came from.  Whether it is raked away by those trusty but sometimes scary metal fingers or left to disintegrate back into the rich earth, it looks above, to see the branches that once held it.  Sometimes, the wind blows and the branches sway its sturdy sway and waves its scaly arms, “hello again” or “goodbye” - sometimes, you are never sure which.  

Those darker, greyer skies of winter scare me a little when the branches look like they are dying or dead, and that maybe it wasn’t a good idea that it had no leaves in the abominable snow.  But the warmth of the yellow sun creeps up and the faint hue of the rainbow emerges just before I give up. And they remind me that trees grow, seasons change, leaves sprout, and we are designed for these changing seasons.  If we started off in places with only one season, we can move and the nature of the world may not move with us.  But we learn, we shed, we grow, we sprout, and we keep growing, even if we thought we were not made for it.  I don’t know if we get the same leaves next time but I know that we cannot hold on to the same ones forever.  And maybe that is just the beauty and ugliness of change: discovering vibrant colors you didn’t know existed and learning to let go when seasons change.  Because as much as the sky turns grey-blue-orange and the world gets cold-warm-hot-cool, my roots are still the same, continuing to reap from the nutrients and water the soil brings, from whichever corner of the earth.

Ancestor Dreams

I wonder how my ancestors felt as they braved the South China Sea to get to a new place they may or may not have known much about. And as they set foot onto the soil of Borneo, what did they find? Were they having second thoughts? Were they anxious about leaving their entire home behind and finding a new home in this jungle? Blacksmithing was the trade my great grandfather had and I assume it was the trade of his ancestors that first arrived here? I don't know. I wonder if it ever crossed their mind about love? About places that they would go, places their children's children would go, and the people they would meet--the relationships they would form and the big family tree that was going to be built. I am curious about them, my ancestors, and what they were like. Would I have gotten along with them or not? I probably wouldn't have been able to communicate with them, would I?

I don't know. But the thoughts play and dance in my dreams and I think about it occasionally--about moving and stuff. 

A Love Letter

It feels a little weird that the sun is back when I thought the dark was supposed to stay a little longer.  My dreams and reality have interweaved themselves into a flurry of EMT faces and the intoxicated limbo of whether that was an actual radio tone or not.  My legs murmur a slight ache from the vigorous pedalling uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill -- so maybe my muscles have not stopped contracting, releasing, contracting, releasing.  That rhythmic beat seems to have pervaded my night--I mean, day. The thumping heart inside my rib cage reverberating on the floor I slept on, the pulsing of an artery from the twitch of the needle on the blood pressure cuff looming in my head, and the rhythmic gasps of breaths I take as I emblazon a path to where someone needs me, a path that becomes more tiresome as the night-day continues but my stubborn determination kicks it out to the periphery.  My hair hangs loose but the long strands meet in a braid that flies in the hard crisp wind. The epi-pens rattle in my pack as I hit a bump in the road but the adrenaline that imaginarily spikes in me upon every call never waivers--it has lived on in the two-hour sleepless, restless phases after every call, smirking and claiming it will go down.  But I doubt it ever does.

Last night was a roller coaster of One coming before I thought we'd started, another One that came after we'd ended, and a surprising third One that thrust me back into the wispy Hampshire air that turned into morning.  Yet, I wake up today, ever equipped with the same adrenaline (that never left) and a sense of relief or content.  A kind of softening around the edges of this uptight worker as I remember off-tangent conversations of "you have a pretty face," something about Asians, and being a doctor in Thailand, fueled by alcohol of course (no drugs they said), the glassy demeanour convincing you they're completely fine before doubling over the bed and giving me a heart attack, the fourth time a patient asks for my name within the span of 5 minutes determined to remember it, the cathartic but one-second nods to my fellow officers and medics exchanged along corridors, the lingering but unexplainable ache in my body waking up the next day, and the incessant and apologetic "thank you guys for coming out" and "sorry for troubling you." 

No, don't be.  

This is our job.

As we wheel our bikes to the infamous office, my guard is slightly lower than it was before.  In the state of possible semi-consciousness, I am flanked by the two people who have just been through everything I have.  Sometimes, I don't say thank you enough to you guys just for being there with me, for doing the work that we do, and for being the two people I trust the most with our patients' lives in those 20, 30, or 40 minutes of a call.  And sometimes I forget the courage of those who call too--for taking that leap and asking for help, whether that be for themselves or the people around them.  

Thank you, all my loves, for all the trust--the trust you give yourself and the trust we give each other.  This is a candid, slightly incoherent but heartful letter on a hazy morning in the last few hours of a long shift.

Your EMT last night that you may never meet again,

Your partner in crime last night--what a team we were,

Andrea.

It's been a pleasure.  Always.

my bed

thank you for being the cocoon in which I twirl and swirl
into the depths of my dreams, nightmares and in between
the in-between world of slumber and wake
beside the ones I love the most,
floating in the air of a room a place a house
I've always known loved lived breathed
in, growing up up up
here I go!--
out into the world, the scary world
but my good ole bed and nice-smell blanket is here
to save the day and rid me of scary monsters lurking
of putting my guard up,
of dreams, places and complicated things
late night reveries, longings and seas
oceans and oceans of you, me and world
drowning sometimes,
you were there--
to catch my every fall, slump, restless
tired body as it crashed, morphed, stayed still
and sometimes in the quiet still mornings,
I open my eyes to the scary world
that didn't seem as scary,
shielded by heavy comforters, the smell of mommy
papa's snoring, the sight of home,
I am not scared I am not scared
because the world is big
but my heart is bigger
as big as the comforts of where I grew up
--and learned to laugh, cry, dream
dream dream--and I dreamed of many things--many far
too far for me to stay
and so I go,
into a land I do not know,
with a heart I do know,
and in the thick of finding selves and staying true--what is true?
I secretly return to this place,
this place of strong blankets, hugging pillows, and childhood dreams
to remind me of things that has always been in me
quietly sleeping waking and being
in the midst of the wakeful chaos and living,
thank you.
thank you for being the cocoon in which I first started dreaming,
to fight, to learn, to breathe, to live
to grow

I am a pirate embarking on a journey--arghh!
the world is big,
but my heart is bigger.

the ode of warrior princess

sometimes
i wish
that i could stay longer
in the embrace
here
and not go
and fight the monsters
with paper swords and playdoh crowns
captain the ship
of drive and purpose
carrying the weight
of the world
with heart
gumption and stuff
of a warrior princess
with a cape emblazoned with pride
but sheltering earnestness
and love
of home.

and finding in places she doesn’t see
in the lavender dawns and spooky nights,
home,
also.

and she flies on
happy
longing
missing
content
yearning
and stuff.

The Present

Sometimes, maybe writing is the only thing that can bear the joy and pain of the heart. Sometimes, it is the best space to just be present because anything more is too difficult for the heart to fathom or understand in times when the world becomes too much. 

It is in the mundane, about-to-get-to-where-we-want-to-go moments that I have found in this trip that held the most weight. I sat on the airplane in between the two most important people in my life as the huge machine engulfing us skidded pass rock and pebble, stumbled with grace--uncertain but determined. I interlocked my fingers with theirs and closed my eyes. And in that brief turbulent yet somewhat therapeutic moment of clarity (mind more easily prey to flashes of the EgyptAir crash), I think in my little head to the vast old heaven above that all of this is enough. It was a small but powerful and strong thought. That if I lay here and it was my final breath (not as morbid as I make it sound), it would be enough. Being here wedged between the two people I love, holding on to each other, it was enough for me. Sure, I had sins, mistakes, I could be broken in a few places, forever never satisfied by man’s wants, needs, desires, and dreams. But that was okay. It was enough. Love was enough. 

And looking back, I want to remember that moment and that love. And the fleeting moments we sometimes take for granted because we brace too much for the future, worry too much about the unknown, and the unwritten page. There is only so much in our control and only so much perfection we can idealise and wish with all the fibers in our body that it be the way we want it to be. But at the end of it, how much joy, pain, sadness, anger, and love can our little hearts carry if we are too busy carrying another moment’s love, pain, joy, and sadness? What if the present has just as much to offer us if we just let it. 

It is, after all, 

the present.

Pieces

I have been discovering many pieces of myself in greater detail this semester.  And it's been challenging and liberating, scary and exciting, all at once.

1. Standing up.

Recently, something very uncharacteristic of me happened.  I engaged in a heated discussion about the experiences of international students on a Facebook comment thread.  The gist: I was standing up for the divergent experiences of international students; someone claimed that that was anti-Black racism, questioned the telling of my own experience given my lack of knowledge, and that we had to all work towards an anti-capitalist framework or else it would perpetuate white supremacy. Long story short, I actually agreed with a lot that they said and I did not intend the discussion to turn out as heated as it did.  I was just trying to offer an additional perspective: that there are many ways racism and oppression manifest; international students who were raised outside the US may experience them in different ways than those who grew up in the US.  I did not deny that we were all racialised and oppressed.  I never once, at least in my opinion, raised my voice or disrespected the other people commenting but rather, just stood my ground on a perspective I was offering, even though I felt that they adopted a more condescending and invalidating tone than I thought necessary.  And that, to tell you the truth, hurt.

I stood up for something I felt had not been given the integrity that it deserved. This additionally intersected with my strong aversion to voices not being heard and communities that are not inclusive.  If I had to do it again, I would continue to stand up for what I believe in because I do not think I did anything wrong or invalidated any person's experience by offering a different perspective in spite of what other people claimed my agenda to be.

2. Multicultural Identity.

This made me think about the culture I grew up in--largely or partly, Asian (whatever that means).  My childhood experiences remind me of a culture that is averse to conflict--so averse to conflict that people do anything to stay out of the conflict to the extent of staying quiet, taking the brunt when it is not the truth, and running away from confrontation with people of differing opinions.  The West is a culture that has subtly (yet more than I thought) pervaded the Malaysian culture I grew up in.  And now, living in the States, has taken a more pronounced role in my life, albeit not too profoundly different from all my years in Malaysia.  In some ways, the West claimed the opposite: that everyone had the freedom to speak their mind and were encouraged to have and voice an opinion.  

And just on the mere fact that I have been, now more than ever, straddling between the two cultures makes me curious about how my multicultural experiences affect the way I see myself, the world, and the decisions I have and will make.  More often than not, I find myself the odd one out when it comes to how I frame my views and thoughts in class or in a conversation. Many times, these perspectives seem so natural and obvious to me but when I talk about it with other people, it becomes interesting that different people may get different parts of where I am coming from but never the entirety.  My perspective has always been a combination of two or three different experiences or perspectives.

3. Finding My Voice.

I try to make sense of this unique positionality and my agency in choosing which side of the extreme I associate most with--because my multicultural identity and experiences usually identify with both.  I guess this is why I believe that things are not as black and white as they seem--people, their beliefs, abilities, thoughts, and actions all fall on a spectrum.  It is more complicated than being respectful to people vs. not voicing your right to have an opinion, following your dreams vs. thinking about what your parents needs are, excelling in a major vs. having multiple passions to feverishly pursue.

I am grateful for the experiences the world has given me and the nuanced and layered lens through which all of this has allowed me to have.  It is sometimes difficult to be sensitive and constantly thinking about the different pressures, pushes, and pulls of the different needs and values that you know exist.  Sometimes, to know a lot can be a poison if you aren't able to make sense of it and find your own unique voice in the thick of things.

These few years of constant reflection, supportive, and new environments have allowed me to grow a lot--to continue to develop that voice of mine, to test out different lenses, and to (sometimes) ridiculously and (most of the time) reasonably, empathise and understand where any side is coming from.  Maybe understanding people and intensely seeing and feeling things from multiple points of view will always be my hidden superpower and kryptonite. Distinguishing my voice in the midst of that is what decides where I land on that spectrum.

Here's to growth, standing up, and finding my voice.

fly on

Ordinary

I don't get many ordinary days like this but when they come, they come and go too quickly.

Today, I woke up to silence, without an alarm clock, sushi-rolled in my blanket, and sunken into my mattress.  The sun rays from the window peeking into my room said hello and I rolled over, sinking even deeper into my dream.  My roommates had left and I had the house to myself.  So, I turned the kettle on and went to brush my teeth.  Two and a half tablespoons of Milo powder swirled into this chocolate malt richness whose taste can ridiculously transport me back to memories of home.  I have always been that boring person that only drinks water in the morning but Milo has been the drink I reach for every time I want to relive that piece of nostalgia from home--morning or night.  I get a text from a friend about a late lunch date today which I honestly almost forgot about.  I check the bus schedule and get a bit excited that my bus gets there 20 minutes earlier; I decide that I will use it to go for the long desired walk I was planning but never had the initiative to pull through.

Today, I have some homework to do, things I want to write and read about.  But that's okay.  In its whole, today is pretty open-ended and free.  And as the the reopening of college next week creeps into my periphery, in this instance of me typing away on my laptop and a streak of sunlight cuts through my quiet room, I think it's okay to not think about that for a while.  To just let the present be the present.  And to find joy in my quarter-full mug of Milo, breakfast banana, and the sun.  The little things.

I feel living as a college student and my life in general has always been about getting things done, making "the most" of my time, and catching up on unfinished work.  And I think I sometimes forget to be present in the moment as it is and appreciate just being.  I've been getting a little bit more mindful about it this semester and I'm liking these little pockets of mindful joy--these little pockets of sunshine.  So, I am writing all this down before I forget, knowingly or unknowingly, about the little things--about the present.

I don't get many ordinary days like this but when they come, they come and go too quickly.  And I want to thank today for being what it is: ordinary.

Thank you (:

Hate

Hate is a strong word.

I hate seeing people left out.

I hate voices not being heard, not including people. 

I hate treating humans any less than any other human.

I hate it.

nofilter

why is there so much pain and brokenness in this world

and why am i feeling so freaking upset frustrated mad and angry at myself for not being able to fix them

this is so ridiculous

but why do i always have to beat myself up about not being able to fix everything, to save the world, to be perfect

Kryptonite

Last time, there used to be this popular game we'd play as an ice breaker.  We would go around the circle and say what superpower we wanted to have to the person in the inner circle.  Once, I said that I wanted to be able to feel or understand what any person was feeling. I thought it was a pretty cool superpower--different from the regular ones.  My partner looked at me weirdly, "Why in the world would you want to be able to do that?"

Many years later, I laugh at this moment and wondered if I had misread the question.  I wondered if I had said a superpower I wish I had or something I already secretly had but didn't know yet. 

*

Let me tell you what it is like to be someone who feels too much.  

Let me tell you what it is like when these kind of people feel pain--either from people around them or themselves.

It is a visceral experience.  It is feeling your gut churn inside out at the pit of your stomach.  It is feeling your heart in the middle of your chest, mercilessly beating in your rib cage.  You are unsure if it is trying to come out of your chest or trying get you to pay more attention to it.  But whatever it is trying to do, it hurts.  But how can emotional pain possibly be felt so tangibly? This emotion-turned-somatic experience is too ridiculous, it can't be real, you tell yourself.  So, you don't tell anyone lest they don't believe you, or worse, they tell you to "get over it".  Sometimes, you try to suppress it but many attempts have proven counter-productive; some attempts have resulted in grave consequences.

Sometimes, I wonder why I have to feel so much.  Why can't emotions, especially of disappointment, anger, discomfort, or aversion to conflict just pass through me? Why can't I be "normal"? Why does it have to stay inside of me when I have no desire at all to become the host to these parasitic feelings that just don't know how to leave me alone.  Why do I have to carry all these emotions of other people, to the point that I frequently can't distinguish which is their emotions and which is mine--and more often than not, they end up becoming the same thing.

***

It is sometimes cool to have this superpower.  You see people, and then you really see people.  And you find so much joy in this world that people sometimes forget to notice or shrug off as "unimportant." I find myself discovering and appreciating so much more nuance in a person that apparently, other people don't see.  Sometimes, it feels like I'm wearing someone else's glasses--seeing what they are seeing and understanding how situations personally, relationally, and emotionally affect them.  It helps me talk to people and listen.  And it helps people open up.  If you could see all the colours that I see and live all the human stories that they tell, it is the most beautiful thing, I can tell you that.

And I guess today is just a bad day; things are overwhelming.  I just wanted to get this out--to remind myself that maybe this secret superpower can be my kryptonite. 

But that's not the only thing it can be.  

fly on

a superhero's humility

You know, I really appreciated that EMT's humility in saying that they didn't know what was going on with the patient when the patient asked them. And that they were still trying to figure it out. I think that we EMTs almost always get caught up in this idea that we are "superheroes" and that we "save" people's lives such that we try to convince ourselves that a "good" EMT has to know all the answers. Yes, we should know our skills and medical knowledge (which can always be improved) but that doesn't make us completely invincible from lack of clues, human error, personal weaknesses, or a bad day. While putting on a face can help us stay calm, have a clear organised line of thought, and keep the patient calm, sometimes, based on the context (especially in psychologically vulnerable situations), being honest with the patient and genuine with what we are doing has equal value to it too. Maybe we need to be willing to step down from our "superhero" pedestal more often and acknowledge that sometimes, we won't know everything, we can't answer all their questions. But we can try. And we can keep persisting in trying to figure out how to best help the patient to the best of our capacity--constantly communicating our earnestness and that we are there for the patient. Even if we don't have everything figured out. 

Because most of the time, we will not have everything figured out.

Here

In the semi-conscious state of intoxicated dreams, the blaring horn goes off and my body instinctually half-seizes as I dive for the radio nestled on the charger by my head. My sleeping bag becomes a ball; I half hurl forward, fumble with the knobs to get it to channel 4 in time. I don't know how long I take to do that as I find the ground beneath my feet and catch a glimpse of my friend awakened by the louder-than-I-remember sound of the radio's tone. "EMT Supervisor on line." I jam my feet into my boots like the world depended on it, tap my jacket pockets only to do a two-step back into room to grab my gloves. I am galloping down the staircase when the nature of the call comes in and its severity spikes my adrenaline even higher than humanly possible--"EMT Supervisor received and responding" and then the hazy concoction of words and voices interject again. They come in intense snippets of memories, these vivid flashbacks of nuanced images of what I saw and heard in fleeting moments, replaying over and over again in my head. The gaps in memory are scattered but occasionally retrievable in retrospect, if I think long and hard about it. I don't remember how but the helmet is on my head--"Dispatch to all EMTs to ... Be advised that AFD is en route-" "Shoot, this is a serious one," my head spins. "I need you guys to respond to ... for I think a possible ...," dispatcher speaks, no more words needed, I hear the urgency. Somewhere in the flurry of that, I discard the idea of putting on my gloves because it'll waste me 5 seconds. My legs are steel and the only energy that exists in my body is right now directed in getting to the scene as fast as humanly possible--I have no other feeling or sensation in my mind and body. I don't even know what time it is and I don't care--I have no recollection if it was light or dark as I swooped pass gravel road. My legs burn but I don't even feel the hill and fly through the frigid air, recite an impromptu prayer under my breath "God be with me," half collapsing the bike onto the ground and stumble back to lean it against the wall. I am already halfway up the stairs of the building. I overshoot and go one floor over--I run back down, turn right and realise I need to go the other way--I turn back, this guy below points to my left, I nod thank you and fly again. I turn the corner and just then,

it hits me. 

In that half-second interval, I register that all this is happening. This is happening. And I feel the nerves under my skin and my heart thudding so hard on my chest. I might explode but I convince myself no, calm down, breathe, snap out of it, you know better. My breath was fast, it must've been. I think. 

It hits me that I am stepping into the unknown--a void space that knows no existence of anticipation because you don't even know what it is to anticipate. You can never really know. Especially with these odd 6am post-Friday night calls when you are in your own kind of high. But as I make that turn, before my eyes frantically search for my patient and before I give more than my heart and mind could give in this line of work, I dwell in that half-second--that seemingly insignificant half-second--that I do not know what I am going to find. 

But secretly, an almost disguised catharsis of emotion bellows deep in my gut. 

And I know that I am here. 

I am here in this moment in time, doing what I am doing with more than what my whole mind, body, and heart could ever give an account for. In the hazy shades of dawn, accelerated blaze across campus, and unassuming silent air, this is me: radio tucked into the cusp of my hand, dark blue jacket hanging from my shoulders, hair all over my face.

I am here 

and I don't wish to be anywhere else. 

For the people I do this job for. 

For all of you.

And I will always be here.