Theodore M.

“How do you cope with all the stress and the challenges in life?” the Little Owl once asked.
          
          “You don’t. You just keep going — existing — because that’s what’s important,” the Kraken replied, sensing a moment of vulnerability from the disheartened owl.
          
          It is but a mortal reminder when all your doubts, fears, and insecurities have been validated, and the future is bleak. There’s no sugar-coating anything when one has fallen short of their aspirations and have reached rock bottom. But to those who have reached the bottom — a moment of clarity — for the only paths to choose from is to stay in the mire of despair or to rise above life’s little setbacks.
          
          “This is the bane of those born to soar the skies: they fall inasmuch as they conquer the heavens. Keep going, and don’t stop. That’s what’s important. For yourself, for me, and for all of those who love and cherish you. After all, how we fall does not define who we are, but how we rise from it,” the Kraken bellowed from the depths, hoping she could hear. 

"The octopus is known to expire almost immediately after mating, hence all healthy, living octopi are virgins, and it is likely that no octopus hatchling has ever met their parents. This is unfortunate as these mollusks are known for their intelligence — one can only imagine their potential as a species if they were able to survive after reproduction and carry over their knowledge to the next generation. Moreover, it is unclear as to why this behavior exists, but current knowledge points to an increase in levels of insulin-like hormones and cholesterol metabolism, which may contribute to their inevitable demise.
          
          The life and death of the octopus is indeed poetic in its own way. We are presented with a highly intelligent, creative creature that has the capacity to impact the living world with its capabilities and brilliance. However, their greatest purpose in life is to maintain the continuity of their species, to which they dedicate the remainder of their days to faithfully fulfill this task; the octopus perishes the moment it learns to love. If the theory of evolution truly works the way it is described, then there is much hope that one day, there may come a time when the octopus learns to love and then live to tell the tale."
          
          — an excerpt from an academic work for Biology

Indeed, we reached an agreement to keep our distance. I may never know the details on your end, and I would be lying if I said that the thought of you facing the consequences of the trouble and pains I subjected you didn't keep me up at night.
          
          There is much joy in having you as a friend, and much sorrow in seeing it crumble overnight. I don't have it in me to turn my words into actions — all the wasted words, but our bond was truly exceptional.
          
          I was wounded, powerless, and afraid when I lost control, and the bond we so carefully built shattered in an instant. It did not help that for each passing day since the incident, I'm forced to display indifference to your existence despite possessing its antithesis.
          This is where we stand, Anita.
          
          You cannot and should not meet me halfway because I will never allow you to face the consequences of me entertaining my vulnerability even if by any chance you wish to do so. After all, where I'm headed you cannot follow — no one can, anyway. 'tis my cowardice guised as cautiousness, for I was afraid of the possible consequences of my actions which unfortunately were not empty fears. Moreover, I cannot stand for something I don't believe in — my fondness for you — despite Truth's glare piercing my darkened soul. You have every right to despise the spineless fool.
          
          Heed my words and recognize that there's no point in ruminating in the past and of "what could have been." Ever heard of "kintsugi"? It is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with urushi lacquer often dusted or mixed with powdered gold. In turn, it creates ceramics that are much more durable and beautiful than its previous state of unbrokenness; it's quite poetic. Likewise, let us pick up the fragments of our broken bond and move forward in hopes of creating something that lasts.
          
          The moon is quite beautiful tonight, Little Owl. You should rest.
          Best wishes, your friend.

"Why do you want to pursue medicine and become a doctor?" has been a question that lingered for quite some time. For someone certain with this long, treacherous, and lonely pursuit since youth, the reasons for this have surprisingly been variable. Many have taken the noble medicinal oath to do no harm, aspiring to save lives — yet I cannot resonate with such a sentiment. I'm no saint, nor do I have altruistic aspirations despite wishing to enter what is perhaps the most humanitarian field of work. "I wish to treat ailments," I reason, "and not patients." Doctors can only do so much as to guide the sick toward the path of healing, but it is ultimately the patient who must actively seek the cure. I maintain that these aesculapian scholars cannot save lives, but rather can only extend them and buy more time. Is it wrong to say that I wish to pursue medicine to understand and defy death? Is it wrong for one to work toward healing yet be so indifferent to the pains of their subjects?
          
          I have admittedly and dangerously flirted with Death from time to time. Upon contemplation, on multiple occasions, while standing on the border of life, I figured that I never feared you. Rather, I feared the thought of permanent departure — that gift which you can offer. I'm afraid of heights, not because of the fear of falling, but because I fear that I may not resist the urge to take the leap. Oh, my dear non-existence, why won't you take me with you and rid me of my condemnation? Life condemned me to be free — come now and free me from the condemnation that is freedom!

Do you ever simply find delight in observing someone work and do their thing? Do you ever pick up on someone's little mannerisms and find yourself smiling in the absence of a logical rationale? Do you ever feel the need to scold someone for neglecting their own welfare? Have you ever spent considerable time formulating a system of responses for every possible reply this person may have in any given conversation, only for you to find yourself at a loss for words once engaging in said verbal exchange? I, therefore, diagnose you with a chronic case of infatuation; it is the irrational feeling of delight in the mere presence and thought of a certain individual.
          
          The rationalist has been diagnosed with this dreadful ailment. He sees not a future spent in intimacy with this certain individual - or any individual for that matter - and yet he can't help but notice her in all her wonders and flaws. "I know it is not love," he reasons, "for I am not willing to wage wars and die for her sake, and love is ultimately defined by selflessness and self-sacrifice. It can never be; I only act out of self-interest, for I am incapable of such faculties." Unfortunately, such an acute condition has no cure - one can only wait out this dreadful ordeal in hopes that it will eventually vanish. However, the subject wishes to maintain a friendship; a genuine kind of mutual respect for one's being, untainted by his misguided emotional attachment and misplaced affection for this remarkable individual.

I was in utter disbelief. For a moment, I thought it was merely a well-crafted fantastical illusion fabricated by the ever-deceptive human mind. But all evidence points to the validity of such an event: I woke up to the calling of a little owl. For whatever reason, she pulled me out of my dreamy slumber and back into reality — it felt like a dream, but it was real. She left as quickly as she appeared, but a glimpse of her face at my most vulnerable left a lasting impression that would eventually turn into a core memory. Little owl, I hope you've slept well. The night is long, and the day's end is fast approaching — you've worked and worried enough for today; therefore, rest and do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

"Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid." - Fyodor Dostoevsky
          
          Yet much sorrow has come with all the wasted words stemming from a soul that attempted to momentarily embrace the warmth. There is much regret in taking the leap of faith — things said, then left unsaid. In wanting more, we have lost what we had. Indeed, there is comfort in indifference, for one cannot hurt without love and vice versa. Oh, cold, dark sea, come and wrap your arms around me. Pull me down to the depths and drown me in your somber tones of silence; make me forget my dreadful existence — regress, for my haven is in walled solitude. But as for you, I say this: live and be merry, for you are destined to take this trajectory — this is what I want.

"Memento mori," a Latin phrase that translates to "remember you must die," serves as a subtle reminder of our feeble frame as mortals. Only when we feel the presence of Death himself do we treasure the greatest gift that is life. Life and Death: the dichotomy of human existence. In death, we are reminded of the value of life, and in life, we forget the dreadful shadow that eventually comes for us all. There is no glory in life and no certainty in death - man is bound to toil for the rest of his days as he waits the dreadful moment we so sugar-coat as "eternal rest."
          
          What then shall we make of it? Do as you will; you are human. Live, love, then die, for none are exempt from this cruel cycle of existence. But in all that you do, memento mori, ergo cherish the invaluable gift of life.
          
          Merry Christmas!