The Man to Mars

Mechanical Heart

From what I saw throughout my fellow classmates in middle and high school, it seemed that we were all slaves to a completely materialistic system. One in which we prepare to capitalize off of our skills, and mask it with the idea of using our passions to contribute to the development of the world around us. I hated it. I hated it so much. In the end however, there was nothing I could do to "change the system". You have to make money to survive, you have to get a good job in order to make it, and you have to have a good educational background in order to get that job, it's the most reliable way to live your life in this era. Thus, I spent my school years building the perfect resume, catering my life to be one of shallow success. 

After completing high school, I entered the aerospace engineering program at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, upon numerous scholarships. Within my first year of college, I lived more than I had in the last 18 years. On the first day of class, a few upperclassmen in the same program invited me over to their house for "a few drinks". Not thinking much of it, I showed up and was immediately hit with loud music, flashing lights, and the overwhelming scent of alcohol. A random girl handed me a beer and went back to dancing in a drunken haze. I'm not sure why, maybe it was the lack of excitement in my more mediocre life, or the new found sense of independence, but I popped the bottle open and drank.

I began spending my days in the library, reading works often times by Camus, Steinbeck, or the occasional Stephen King novel. I never bothered to check out books, as the ones I searched for were always there on the shelf. So, it was interesting to see a girl with glasses too large for her warm brown eyes pick up The Fall seconds before I did so myself. She continued to come to the library after that, always sitting by the window showcasing the adjacent courtyard, moving from Camus to Verne, and a favorite classic of mine, Psychopath. Watching her read became a routine fascination for me, her expressions of horror and disbelief, between sheer joy and confusion, always hid behind the pages of a well written book. Without any exchange of words, I felt like I knew her, all but a name. 

On one of those typical days, nearing the end of the semester, I found myself looking for the girl, wondering why she wasn't in her usual spot, serenaded by the nearby willow trees of the courtyard.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to face a set of chocolate colored eyes, like hers... and a smile like hers, paired with over sized glasses. 

With a more reserved expression, she uncovered a sweatshirt I had discarded the previous day. I looked over to see a copy of Of Mice and Men enclosed in her arm and initiated conversation. After that, meeting her became an ecstatic part of my day, something I always looked forward to. With her, conversation never bored, and the hours passed like minutes, all too quickly. Exchanging thoughts on one metaphor turned into an in depth analysis of the entire passage, and her interpretations always caught me off guard. After spending four semesters with her, it was very displacing when she said she would be returning to her home state to complete her studies. I couldn't understand the origin of the immense discomfort clouding my thoughts. Throughout my life, people came and went, I enjoyed their company and moved on to the next person fate allied me with. Like a machine, cycling through the same function time and time again. The day she bid farewell and departed for the airport was the day I realized she wasn't someone I could replace, or learn to live without. Without her, my life returned to its monotonous state, and after having lived, I didn't want to return to it. During that time I realized how cold and mechanic my heart had been before I met her. If there is such a thing as love, I believed it was what I felt for Mary. 

The next scene wasn't what you would expect from any romance novel, where the male protagonist rushes to the airport to stop the plane, or buys tickets to chase after his girl. Instead, I stayed in my room staring blankly at the ceiling, imagining her going through the airport, getting on the plane, and finally leaving. I wondered if she thought of me as I was thinking of her, and found myself in this cadaverous state frequently for the following two years. I never felt what people call "heartbroken", but undoubtedly regretful, every single day. In those years, life consumed itself with alcohol and women, but all the while I could not forget Mary.  At one point I felt as if I was a madman, wondering if any of this really did happen. There was no one to verify that I had ever loved this girl, and the only evidence keeping me sane were the books I always found on the shelf. 

Without memories, have we even succeeded in the action of living? During those lengthy periods of thought all I could think about was why I even bothered living if the memories I created could never be reflected on without doubt and heartache. I cannot even begin to describe how much I wanted Mary to be present in my life. Every single day I had the slightest bit of hope that maybe she would be sitting by the window, the same one that showcased the neighboring courtyard made up of willow trees. Every day I was disappointed, but I hoped again the next and returned expectantly to the library, and I hated myself for it. I couldn't figure out why Mary would never leave my head, and even while knowing she would never return, why I continued to go somewhere thinking I might see her. If I never saw her again, my life may have just ended during my junior year of college.