distant dreams

internship. shopping mall crowd.

I recently completed an internship at a firm. The firm is one of many situated inside a tall, shiny corporate building. I feel childish already, fingers jerking and jumping over the keys in my usual clumsy attempt to relate to strangers how it felt, how it went, how it made me grow.

Sometimes it's better to let some things go. In my shell, I stretch outwards. My skin, my brain, my tongue - they all pulse without me in the midst of it. Dislocated, at the end of a strangely stressful experience, the essence of me is calling for a bathroom break.

Alright. Bathroom break.

The internship was not entirely joyless. It wasn't all that turbulent either. As I grow older by increments, the more ambiguity encroaches upon every part of my daily life. The values I live by, the nicknames I secretly cherish, the non-loves and puppy-flutters that I still hold onto for the sake of boredom. Ambiguity demolishes all of these certainties, and replaces them with great pools of grey and green that bubble and crackle at the surface. Who knows what goes on beneath it all. What lies under perfectly friendly smiles, in between carefully chosen words, around the quick darting glances and sonic-speed brainwaves? No one knows.

I left my office jacket behind at a hidden bar. I am reunited with it now. It's from H&M. Not much to boast about, the shoulders are a little tight-fitting, and the sleeves are too long over my wrists. A strange possessiveness over inanimate consumer goods. It witnessed my first moot, my first mock trial, my first serious debate, my first client office visit, my first semi-real office job. It lay, patiently draped, over the back of my rolling high-back office chair at my internship. It is not particularly dirty or odorous but it needs a wash. I can't possibly let it go just like that.

The more work I get accustomed to, the more convinced a part of me is about the ironic duality of my choices. There exists an odd, off-kilter divergence between my skill sets and my apparent passions. I lie daily to myself in order to grow closer to the ever evasive truth.

Today was the last day of the internship, and coincidentally a Friday, and I dressed casually. I felt out of place, but this does not bother me as much any more. Only enough for me to notice before a group picture is taken, but not enough to feel left out at the informal dinner with my new acquaintances. We bring our flaws, our insecurities, our arrogance, and our physical presences when we go into the workplace. The small steps between the photocopying machine and the desk, the awkward transitions between faux wood and carpet floors, the unpredictable flares of panic as too much work rolls in. I might miss that, lovingly if I dare say. I might even want to return to the very same firm post-graduation in the primate hope of familiarity. As I am, my other dreams have been put on hold. I cannot play the piano quite right as I am.

A good thing that came from it: I managed not to feel small. Not in the least. Emboldened, witty, a streak of rebellion against established authority. All these amateurish fancies came rushing back to me. It was bound to happen to me in what was a brand new environment. Now I have stabilized but landed on a different platform. I am not as kinetic. New potential.

I don't listen to music written and sung in Mandarin. Not even Cantonese. I listen to American, to Korean. I suck it all up into my veins, my auditory system, for breathing purposes. Foreign over-hyped tunes fuel my friendships, my dreams of temporary material opulence. I look up to these human idols for answers and get irritated when I cannot reach them. A dead end calculation. Which reminds me: I have noticed individuals who enjoy Mathematics are rather devilish. Or overly bland. They remind me of coffee when you no longer need coffee. Back to music - if I get a Steady Job in a Big Firm, another girl somewhere else fills the vacant spots of these rosy dreams.

It is wholly confusing, this growing up business. What are trusts? What is trust? What is equitable? How many multi-syllable Latin words do I need to know before I pass? I am joining the fray, slowly, half-wittingly, half-witted relative to everyone around me. Nothing with me but the blooms from my teenage years clutched in my left hand and my voice in my right. I choke, and get sore throats in the smog of this ill parallel reality that awaits like a distorted mirror in my future, smiling tiredly down at me. Remember to smile for the profile picture, brush your hair and let it grow long. I write now only for myself, and it is very unpalatable for other people. Other people have their own thoughts to be absorbed about. They too own troubles, happiness, snapshots. Their own sorrows to whittle away with the carving blade that is their conscience.

Walking ten steps behind my ex-colleagues, all slightly older than me, all dressed in business casual, they stick out against the throng of the shopping mall crowd at 9.30 PM. They somehow walk in a row, so as to keep up and be part of the same, relaxed conversation with each other. Their backs of white shirts and black blouses look almost like the start of an epilogue to an epic, exuding what can only be described as the scent of decided futures and safe academic prowess as they amble forwards. My mother comments beside me.

"Look at them. Futures in the making."

I offer an appreciative laugh, and my feet itch under the thinning fabric of my old socks. For a split second I become very aware of my zip-up hoodie, my sweatpants. I look a farce. Are those appropriately clad people really the same people who laughed with me so unreservedly just moments before? These ambiguities are not settling well in my stomach, in my sleeplessness, in the brand new Fuji Film mini 9 Polaroid camera I recently purchased to fill in the blank hungry spaces. At least I am wearing my most expensive pair of sneakers. All of a sudden, I felt like a packet of potato chips.

Why do so many American youths sing about tennis courts?