I could and should be pursuing my MBA right now according to you. There is no way that the MFA will help me build a better career; it’s a waste of money first of all, secondly, it’s a waste of time. You want me to go the MBA path right away because that’s what fits into your plan. You have dreams for us and for me.
Will I sit and write books all day instead of taking care of household chores and responsibilities? Will others point this out as a flaw on my domestic résumé? Will my pen plunge us into starvation, shame, and tragedy to the imperfect perfect world we now have? Will the words I write take me away from you? Or will I lose you because of my written words?
These are all questions you imply in your silence; in your silent, questioning, and submissive stare. I’ve tried and failed in explaining this perplexing pull towards the world of ink and paper. The ink sometimes flows from the depths of a thumping and confused heart; sometimes it’s the clear and salty water in my eyes. At times the ink gains color from colorful and colorless dreams and imaginings.
There’s so much inside me and you don’t always listen. You hear me through your ears, but never through my voice. You’ve been with me all my life; you’re my past, present, and future. I wish though, you would be my mirror instead. Every word I inscribe is for your eyes. You don’t know my childhood or the experiences that make me who I am. I want you to know all the little stories that I remember or conjured throughout my twenty-two years. Because I want to be a part of you, you need to know me first. When we talk, we bond a little, but lose a lot in translation and clarification. We have so much to distract us, so little to knit us together.
One day, maybe after I’m gone, you’ll read the un-addressed letters I wrote and understand everything my soul spoke. Honestly, even I don’t understand the various languages of my inner voice, but I write so I can put some voices into comprehendible words. There’s a language beyond language, and I know you are the one who will understand the un-uttered sentiments many years from now.
Over time, I have learned to lead a double life. In one life, I live with you and talk to you about our careers, our goals, and our education. This is the life that I work in, save in, drive in, shop in, and socialize in. It’s mostly your world and everybody else’s world. It’s only half of my world though.
My second life is a private one. This is the life where words I want to say, I hold back so that my first life will remain unharmed. I take precautions in this life only to protect the first. Otherwise, this world is free from restrictions and obligations. I don’t want you to think that my second life doesn’t include you because it does. You are such a significant part of my private being, but the significance is covered by obligations to secrecy.
I’ve heard somewhere that some things can never be said, only felt. That is what my second life is; it’s a life you can only feel. It’s a life that I’ve recorded under veiled words.
My life is a poem, my life is a story. You are my life, but how will you know that unless you read the stories and poems first? You think I write for myself, so I won’t have to worry about the other factors important to our survival.
You’ve said I write because I want to make it my career and run away from the sweat required in actual full-time job. You’ve said writing is my way of running from responsibility. You’ve even said that writing will distract me from every other important factor crucial to survival in the tough twenty-first century Bay Area economy.
But you’re wrong.
I know you’re concerned. I know you’re afraid. I know you simply want what you feel is best for us.
I want what you want, everything that you want and more. But I write to teach you to read between the lines and interpret events based on a thorough analysis and self-discussion. I write to help you learn yourself and begin noticing the delicate threads that piece us together.
If you were to read and contemplate everything I write, you would know that I will never turn my back on you or leave you stranded in a tidal wave. Because at the end of the day, I only write to strengthen the frailty of our bonds and empower our resolve to stick everything out. I write for myself, for us, and for you.