A Sculptor's Journal: Sitting in the Union

Sitting in the Union

3/31/2022 - Age 20

It's a typical Thursday.

The gray clouds that hang above our heads slowly dance to the rhythm of the rain. As I make my way to the dining hall, my footsteps become entangled with the tune, taken in by the light drizzle. My trench coat was lightly soaked, with drops of water glistening from each thread, like pearls.

I walk into the busy halls, filled with people and noise. Chatter, laughter, the faint sound of typing, and the occasional clangs of kitchen equipment. The room is filled with various smells, ultimately masked by the cologne I put on in the morning.

I feel a slight discomfort in my head, most likely caused by the lack of sleep in the past week.

I am now sitting at a marble counter, directly in front of a glass pane. On the other side is the kitchen and a young Asian woman is rummaging through the ingredients, taking orders from the passerby looking for a quick meal. Her hair is tied into a ponytail that is carefully laid across her back, covered by a navy blue cap. Her worn-out sneakers graze across the tile floors with light taps, and her concentrated gaze and calculated movements blend with the rest of the scene. She walks across the kitchen with a slight limping motion, putting most of the pressure on her left leg. Her staggering movements indicated discomfort and fatigue, and I can tell her legs are worn out from standing so long.

After all the customers were served, they disappear into the crowd. With what looked like a sigh behind her masked face, the woman stands before the ingredients counter, with her gloved hands resting on the platform to assist the rest of her body, taking the burden to alleviate their tire.

She stares directly into the tables of people. Not a single twitch or movement can be noticed. Her erect body was completely still. Eyes straight ahead, enough to burn a hole through the cement pillars. Her head shifts gently to the left as if to scan the scene, and the concentration finally breaks as she turns around to check the kitchen. Her monotonous routine is mesmerizing like a swinging pendulum. So simple yet carries so much weight and life. Her routine, which is one out of billions, is much like a single blood cell in a complex intertwined system of a living and breathing person. We are all connected in some way, even if it is just passing by on the street or exchanging words by a cash register.

However, the organism that we operate is self-destructive.

Poverty, wealth,

peace, war,

hunger, greed,

pain, comfort

sex, money, drugs

inequality, fear, hatred

love, hope, happiness

good, evil,

They strangle and overlap with each other like a den of hungry snakes.

The complex and savage webs are woven into something so beautiful yet so frightening.

These thoughts weigh heavy in my head and momentarily dissipate like white smoke. Our minds can be so complex yet they cannot hold everything we receive. That is why our existence is a paradox. Constant change and constant contradiction. Our initial expectation is for people to be consistent, but consistency lies in the realm of the impossible. We expect politicians to stand by their beliefs and morals like diamonds, only to realize they are lumps of shale. We expect our friends and partners to stand by us, but when they betray and hurt us, it comes as a shock.

Humans must depend on trust and consistency to function, but the lack of it is frightening in this world. This is why I try to live my life with consistency as one of the centerpieces. I must not give in to the world. I cannot be just another snake writhing in hunger. I would rather die as myself than become someone else. Certainly, I cannot be perfect, but trying in itself is the first step.

I sit and reflect.

I reflect.

As I look back on the past couple of weeks I see nothing but a hazy fog of scattered chaos, casting a screen over my eyes, hindering my vision.  The anxiety that started as a tiny drop a couple of years ago has now finally made its way to my chest, covering the lower half of my body with marks and scars. It's spreading and it's suffocating me. Invisible by nature, I can only allow it to stay. I can only pretend that I am okay and move forward. A cry for help is useless. I have to be strong, as I have people depending on me. I have to scale the mountains. I have to climb and reach for the towering expectations I have set for myself. If my body can't take it anymore I must crawl. If I bleed I must push through the pain and leave a trail of red.

I know I am young. The old of the world will constantly look down on the young condescendingly as if their knowledge of the world will always be greater. But like a wheel, it repeats. The young become old, and the old eventually reduces to dust, making room for the young to become old, and the cycle continues. It's so comical and amusing. We are like herds of livestock, thinking we have awareness and acting high and mighty, but in the end, we only amount to the fences that keep us captive. We believe we are the rulers of this earth, occupying every corner of the globe, but we still kill and cheat, steal and mock, and destroy and create to be destroyed again. It's laughable that we think we are in control. From the moment we were born, our fates have been predetermined. From the moment we took our first breath our tiny hands have been shackled and we can only roam free in this cage. No matter how great we dream, we are weighed down by these chains, limited by the invisible iron bars that keep us.

In my twisted head, the world has become monotone. The palette that once shone in vibrant colors has dulled over the years. Part of the anxiety that I feel comes from the realization of this.

The repeated patterns of anticipation and letdowns are like a wheel. A wheel carries you up and it eventually lets you down. In life, we run in circles. Nowhere to escape to. Nowhere to hide. We are trapped in this eternal loop of suffering and joy.

Like the planets and stars that fill the universe, we adhere to the shape. We can only experience a certain amount of joy, and once that joy is reached, there is nothing else left. We cannot stay in that space forever, and we can only go back down. There is no destination.

Forever we run in circles. Endlessly. Tirelessly. Searching for meaning. Searching for answers. We are a permeable goblet that is filled to be emptied.

But honestly, with all these thoughts that I am projecting into this screen, they are only thoughts. I write to reflect and keep in touch with my inner being. I believe that if one does not look introspectively, they will only live in ignorance, and eventually lose touch with themselves, only relying on the confusion within them and external stimulation to live.

I write to connect with me. I write to give my future self something to look back on.

I am a sculptor. I write to sculpt the shapeless and formless thoughts that reside within myself, characterizing them and giving them a shape and form. Sculptures are only a physical snapshot of an idea and moment, and in this piece, I am taking a snapshot of these thoughts in

this moment in

this space and

at this time,

preserving them like a fossil that can be examined later. I am a sculptor, an archeologist, and a critic, preparing for my own museum. The ability to express my inner being is a luxury that many do not utilize and I feel an overwhelming joy that I have the ability to preserve pieces of my existence, that eventually tell a bigger story.

As I finish up my writing, I realize it has been an hour since I started this journal entry. The lines are getting longer with people and the halls are becoming denser. Tired eyes and hunched backs. This is what youth is. This is the system we have created.

I lean over my computer screen. Time to get back to work.