I Am Eden

Chapter 1 : Lisie's boyfriend

Eden was very silent and cooperative as a child, a flawless paragon in the eyes of his parents. He pondered if it was the reason they never bore any other child. He stood as the sole and singular prototype crafted by two individuals of grand aspirations. Needless to say, the weight of expectation nesting upon his shoulders was immeasurable. Of course, Eden always stood accordingly. Yet, a rush of curiosity for everything and anything has always been digging in him as a child.

Eden could be the type to wonder what is the nature of consciousness and how does it arise from the physical processes of the brain, what is the fundamental nature of the universe and what is the nature of quantum entanglement, how does it challenge our understanding of classical notions of causality and locality. These thoughts and inquiries existed within Eden, their presence known only to him, unsure of the path that would lead to their comprehension and understanding. Thus, they formed a knot in Eden's mind, but at times, they tangled also in his lungs, his stomach, or his calves.

Fortunately, Eden possessed remarkable talent in qualities indirectly demanded by his parents. It was as though he had always understood their workings, from the moment of his birth or even within the confines of his mother's womb. He couldn't precisely discern the specific qualities his parents sought in a child, but he somehow managed to consistently fulfill their quest. Despite the relentless pressure he endured from them, Eden had never labeled his parents as flawed. He had always reasoned that they simply hadn't been blessed with the gifts of patience and curiosity.

His own curiosity didn't truly bother him as a child; rather, he relished in playing with it. He delighted in imagining that he was on the cusp of satiating his thirst for knowledge, an exhilarating rush of adrenaline that he could find nowhere else. One summer day, as the sun bathed the world in a warm glow, Eden stumbled upon an old, dusty book at the library. (The book was actually quite ordinary and was not so different from the others.) It was a forgotten treasure, filled with tales of ancient civilizations, mystical creatures, and uncharted territories. As he delicately turned each page, his imagination soared and the words seemed to dance before his eyes. He saw himself as an explorer, unearthing hidden wisdom and unraveling the secrets of the universe. When his parents told him to stop focusing on such mundane things and stay down-to-earth, Eden promised himself that his hidden world of imagination should stay hidden. He devoured books in secret, constructing intricate theories in his mind and experimenting with scientific principles when his parents were occupied elsewhere. It was during these stolen moments that he felt truly alive, a thirst for knowledge propelling him forward.

However, as he grew older, that curiosity naturally waned and gave way to countless gusts of thoughts. It was no longer amusing. Thinking was not enjoyable. In truth, he was so entangled in his thoughts that he could no longer recall the past five years. It was as if his body was present, but his soul resided elsewhere. Sometimes, it ventured into the uncharted territories of the future, while other times it revisited memories of the past. It never visited the present, the moment at hand. It was as if his thoughts harbored an aversion to the present, and his soul remained caught between the future and the past, oscillating incessantly between the two.

What troubled Eden the most was the loss of memories of certain versions of himself. He cannot recall who he was when he experienced his first kiss in sixth grade. He does not remember who he was when his third-grade class photo was taken. He has no recollection of who he was when he had to choose his major in college. He does not remember who he was when he took his first steps into medical school. He does not remember who he was, and he does not remember who he is at this very moment either. He does not remember himself. Yet, it is not as if he feels unfamiliar territory within himself. Rather, he would say that the canvas of his soul remains blank, unsure of where to draw the first stroke. Will it be impeccable enough for that initial stroke ? Could it manifest a defining quality or imperfection with the exactitude and constancy required to allow him to declare, "I am," before speaking it aloud?