A Fork

A fork of steel and many directions lay at my feet

And begged to me, “Pick me up, pick me up!”

So I did, and carried its gentle, silver frame to a small restaurant,

Placing it with what I thought were its brethren, of

Other forks and spoons and knives and silverware.

But upon my fingers leaving it, leaving only faint fingerprints,

The fork begged to me, again, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me!”

So I wrapped it around my delicate hands once more,

And carried it according to its instructions,

To a forest in the mountains, where there was a silent waterfall,

A waterfall not of water, but of liquid gold and liquid dreams.

I turned to the fork and asked, “What is this place?”

The fork replied, “I don’t know, but we brought us here.”

To this, I looked around to the singing, dancing trees,

The blinking sun behind, and the wind, aching with the

Cries of a million shrieks of laughter and a billion broken hopes.

I sat down and placed the fork onto a patch of growing grass,

To which the grass immediately rose up from the ground,

And caressed the fork within its soft, friendly touch.

I talked to the fork as it talked to me, talking to itself,

Talking of black snow and stationary clouds.

Soon the clouds held still as the wind picked up speed,

And little dark particles began descending from the sky,

Melting into pools of anxiety as it made contact with the trees.

I stared in confusion and contentment at this scene, when

The fork then said to me, “You can leave me now.”

So I did, walking down a path that did not exist,

Illuminated by memories that had been washed away by nostalgia,

And many days later without sleep, I arrived upon a road.

The road had no signs and no directions, but laid upon its black surface,

An eternity of forks that shouted at me in bizarre languages,

And I turned nowhere and ran forever into the sun that never set.

The Cliff

While you were afraid to fall

I dove off the side,

cascading down along the

smooth, white limestone wall

into the pitiless and pitiful ocean.

And while you searched endlessly

for me, worrying about me

drowning, sinking, or futilely wading

in this postlapsarian sea,

I built a boat —

I built a boat of clouds and solitude,

with a mast of mist and oars of paper,

with a crew of sandmen

and a map of unrecognizing and fleeting stars.

And as I sailed across eternity,

I could see you atop that

simple cliff, watching your silent figure,

in awe and in vain,

I could see you and your

translucency with clarity;

I could see the wings you had,

The wings I used to have:

Where there was formerly a tie

to light, to air and the mark of bliss,

Where I found instead now,

an emptiness upon my spine.

So as I moved my calloused

hands across my bare skin,

I thought I was doomed,

I thought I had been cast off —

And then I was free.

Ashes

some dust, some powder

some sand and shredded bones

gifted by

                        wind

to fly, to

            seek, to

            settle

onto the tabletops

                        and books abandoned:

some accessories forgotten

            but by

the dead

the

                                    lonely used-to-be-flesh —

            and blown off

            so

indignantly

            so

                        without a first (or second) thought.

ashes are yesterday as

flesh is today as

dreams are of tomorrow

            and blow and blink and

— poof —

                        and should we forget

the bitter

useless
                                    dust

To the Color Red

Of warmth, of passion —

Shades of violent emotion,

The fluids that do so freely flow from

The partition of some weak flesh,

Dictated by the careful, careless drawing

Of steel and hate.

And like rose, or ruby, or other

So-called signs of love,

These hues must blind the lover, as to let him

See not rainbows, but only crimson

and scarlet deceptions, cloaked in a

Fiery display of vivid illusion —

And even to the well read,

Such washes of brilliance and

Inescapable vibrancy can, and do,

Drown out the pitiful (now only) whimpering

Of a choked reason; for these wavelengths

Coil around the strongest hearts, and leave

No air for a tempered mind to breathe.

To paint a mind with this red would be

To discolor the cold, the frozen intentions

Of an even resolve. And though odd to

Wish of this, I must

Nonetheless succumb to the blaze

Of uncontrolled desire, hot lust.

To deny its entry would leave

Me to be blue — and who

Would be so cruel to lose out on the longest shade,

Without which we would be unable to

Orange with the quiet sunset, and

Purple with rage against the darkening night?

Essay for Princeton

Using a favorite quotation from an essay or book you have read in the last three years as a starting point, tell us about an event or experience that helped you define one of your values or changed how you approach the world.

“My life amounts to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean. Yet what is any ocean, but a multitude of drops?”  -David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

Such is the world. Though it hasn’t gotten bigger per se, I think we have become more aware of its immensity. That is not to say that we as individuals are powerless or negligible—people disprove that notion everyday. But I’m looking at the San Francisco skyline right now, thinking about how there are tens of thousands of people right in front of me, hidden behind curtained windows, walking on streets far below, and how invisible everyone seems to be. Seeing the endless stream of cars pass by, it’s easy to remove that silver Camry, or that red I-don’t-know-what-it-is car. To take out those faceless individuals and move on with life, and to walk on without any further consideration. Take a drop out of the ocean, and the ocean is just as grand and expansive.

So such is my life. To most of the seven billion on Earth, I am a silent existence, just as they are to me. Remove me—see how much the world cares. But of course, a small part of it cares (I hope.) And though only hundreds out of billions, that is still hundreds of times bigger than one. And every person has those kinds of connections, all meshed together so that every action is compounded by our relationships, our undying ties to the world. The snowball effect, the butterfly effect—though we can never know the effects of one drop, each is indispensable. Maybe not so much in the present, but with time, each action and decision is amplified; our lives, however miniscule right now, become connected with every corner of the world, and like water droplets elevated into clouds, we’ll travel the world.

By reflecting upon those inevitable what-ifs in life, I slowly began to see everything as what-ifs: not just actions and decisions, but placements, timings. All so tiny and seemingly insignificant, but yet so essential to how our world looks today.

Suddenly, the entire globe broke down into grains of individual actions, miniscule specks that I could cusp in my hands. I could see the single particles, which seemed to sprawl all over, and I imagined myself as one of those tiny crumbs, hiding beneath pounds and pounds of history. Perhaps it may seem counterintuitive, but in that moment I felt good about myself, the solace and acceptance of my tiny little drop in this ocean.

Of course, I will still study for my calculus tests. I will still cross my fingers when the judges are announcing the winners. I will still strive to be the best, to fulfill my ambitions and goals, and to — to just do something of value, something that leaves a mark. I will do it all the same, but now with a different mindset. I am not looking for a corner of a page in the history books. I’ve stopped that desperate search for the limelight and the hidden treasure. I am small, and my name can be forgotten between now and eternity. I don’t mind so much anymore.

To me, what awaits after death isn’t an afterlife, or reincarnation. It is a nameless continuation where all my achievements and deeds and smiles resonate through the future. For all my actions and decisions, their consequences are compounded by the sands of time, like small water molecules accumulating into a cloud. And though soon it may be indistinguishable which little floating cloud is mine, I know it will be up there somewhere. So back on earth, I continue toiling in this life, awaiting a time when I get to rise up from the ocean and into the heavens, knowing that what I’ve done has been, however small, something worthwhile.

Poem to a Lonely Something

I heard a saxophone

play its melancholy blues,

a tune that

spun with a deep,

harrowing

sadness — so that

the air sank and

my steps became heavy,

muddy, as if wading

through some dark,

beautiful amber.

But before that, in a silent

room, where there were only pictures

(of what I do not

remember), that must have

conjured up some whitewashed

feelings — I talked to

myself, thinking

of you. And that singular thought,

of feeling

but not being felt,

touched upon my numbed

skin, with acid tears

and calcified bones —

sensations that were

so cold, so

inspiringly frozen. That the

sun would simply

give up, drop dead and

sputter out like

an old light bulb

seemed oddly comforting.

And because of that,

I turned to the moon,

waning and rising,

overcast by many hazy thoughts

along with that wandering saxophone

melody, where I waited, listened,

and sang my song

to a lonely something.