What a terrible thing it is to wound someone you really care for and to do it so unconsciously.”

― Haruki Murakami

If you ever read this, I’m sorry.

I wish that I got to enjoy grad school. That is all. I think there should be an element of joy to learning, and unfortunately, due to what happened and how poorly it was handled, that joy was taken. Things are so dysfunctional, so outlandish, that right now I may be a graduated student or I may not be. Schrodinger’s Diploma.

There was a tremendous amount of joy during my time at UC Davis. The memories are lined in gold. Here… not so much.

For 70K, I wish I got to enjoy this.

I received an email today from my a asking why I haven’t enroll in c. I had good reason not to, as an attempt to escape this hellish place once and for all. But on paper, i’m sure it will sound stupid.

I began to feel guilty, knowing they (them and other a’s) will blame me for this, and imply I’m further complicating an already complicated situation.

Then I began to think: given how many things THEY have fucked up for me, all the procedure THEY lack, and the lack of coordination, transparency, and support, I absolutely cannot, not for a second, begin to accept blame. Its ALL on them. Any behavior I choose in a corner they backed me into is also on them.

I realized how much implicit guilt I’ve unknowingly carried for so long. Today, forcing myself to not accept any of it here, I felt a physical sense of weight lift off me.

‘Nos-tal-gic,’ Akira said, as though it were a word he had been struggling to find. Then he said a word
in Japanese, perhaps the Japanese for ‘nostalgic’. ‘Nos-tal-gic. It is good to be nos-tal-gic. Very important.’

‘Really, old fellow?’

‘Important. Very important. Nostalgic. When we nostalgic, we remember. A world better than this
world we discover when we grow. We remember and wish good world come back again.
So very important. Just now, I had dream. I was boy. Mother, Father, close to me. In our house.’
He fell silent and continued to gaze across the rubble.

‘Akira,’ I said, sensing that the longer this talk went on, the greater was some danger I did not wish fully
to articulate. ‘We should move on. We have much to do.’

It took losing her, and the journey losing her has placed me on, to teach me to love openly. After I learned this, I stopped being sparing with affection.

I would no longer deliberate before showing someone love. I wouldn’t give thought before messaging classmate who’s having a hard time at their clinical site offering my support, reaching out to an old friend to see if they’d like to get together, sharing a post of a school friend and I for their birthday.

This was an important lesson for me.

To live from the heart.

But the lesson that’s followed is to be sparing with my energy.

All things are an exchange of energy. Thinking about someone, communication, affection, its all an eternal exchange that will far transcend life.

In the process, I thought that if I do live from the heart, I’ll meet other people also living from the heart. And that I’ll bring out the best of each person, the same lovingness, and we’d have a loving connection (in any context).

But what I came to see, and I say this without cynicism, is that often I’d give so much of my heart but it’d go unreciprocated.

Reaching out to school friends over the summer who don’t reach out to me first. Checking in on acquaintances who I knew were struggling. Sharing with others who seemed down how I feel about them, the love I have for them.

Sometimes I knew how one-sided it was. “That’s not what this is about,” i’d tell myself.

“Being loving isn’t about the social context.”

Seeing messages left on “READ” or “SEEN” stung.

I’d offer to take classmates out sailing under the Golden Gate who I knew wouldn’t be able to go because they have partners, and it’s just… weird.

I feel embarrassed even writing some of this.

Eventually I felt like I was giving away so much of myself, the purest parts of myself, and what I was giving was unwanted.

I’ve come to learn that everything is an exchange of energy, and although I do know how important it is to live from the heart, I also think being thoughtful about who you share your love with ensures that your love, and your heart in which it comes from, is valued. There’s something disrespectful to the self about offering your purest parts unwantedly, again and again. It changes the love you have for yourself.

I have friends who’ll slump down against the wall and cry with me, and those are the ones worthy of my heart. The ones who offer theirs. This is where my own love is valued and respectful. Which, in term, strengthens the quality of the love.

It’s not about closing the heart again, especially since I had to lose so much and suffer greatly for my heart to open. It’s not about cynicism, pessimism, or hurt feelings.

It’s about being intentional with our purest parts. Our purest self.

Since learning this, my love has turned inward and it glows brighter.

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned from blackjack is that you can do everything right and still lose.

I knew my old high school friend, Cody, was getting married this summer. I was surprised I hadn’t gotten my invitation yet.

“His girlfriend probably isn’t letting him invite any of his friends,” my mom said.

“You didn’t receive an invitation because his fiancé holds is balls for him,”- my friend Andrew.

I reasoned either he wasn’t inviting any of the old gang, or he’s invited all of us and is just late on the invitations.

I have been very lonely lately. Each day is spent in my university library finishing the second draft of my book. The room I write from, “The Atrium,” is a large glass room that shows the USF cathedral, scathing landscapes of campus, and beyond the campus, San Francisco. Nobody is in the library during summer except for staff. And they all stay out of my little glass sanctuary. Sometimes the loneliness reaches a point, where when I hear someone enter the library (its that quiet), I get excited. I hope I then hear foot steps nearing the Atrium. To just “be” around someone else. But I don’t. On numerous occasions, it gets so lonely that I convince myself the silence is diving. Again and again and again. Like a black hole swallowing itself.

It would have been nice– more than nice to be able to be with the old group, even after how much time has passed, celebrating in Vegas. Hitting golf balls off the roof of a building in 101 F heat. A break from the silence that’s self-consuming.

They all still live in this same town. And even though our lives are a million miles a part, I liked thinking that if I was ever in dire need of company, they’d be there. That the past can act as a cushion. But it can’t. And they aren’t. A line in the sand has been drawn.

People have been dropping like flies lately, this is an extension of that.

And I am tired of guessing the endgame.

“The pain is stronger than ever. I’ve seen bits of lost Paradises and I know I’ll be hopelessly trying to return even if it hurts. The deeper I swing into the regions of nothingness the further I’m thrown back into myself, each time more and more frightening depths below me, until my very being becomes dizzy. There are brief glimpses of clear sky, like falling out of a tree, so I have some idea where I’m going, but there is still too much clarity and straight order of things, I am getting always the same number somehow. So I vomit out broken bits of words and syntaxes of the countries I’ve passed through, broken limbs, slaughtered houses, geographies. My heart is poisoned, my brain left in shreds of horror and sadness. I’ve never let you down, world, but you did lousy things to me.” – Jonas Mekas (“As I Was Moving Ahead, Occasionally I Saw Glimpses of Beauty”)

― Jonas Mekas

Two years ago this time, the sudden and violent death of my best friend existed as a whole body wound. One that gushed blood nonstop. Two year ago this very evening, my beloved grandma would begin having chest pains and I’d race her to the emergency room as she had a heart attack. I sat there, clamming up in the unnaturally warm waiting room, with a face shield, N95 Mask, and gloves on given we were mid-COVID pandemic pre-vaccine. My best friend’s death still disillusioning, grandma possibly being the next on life’s chopping block, I sat in the clammy discomfort in utter astonishment of how cruel life can be. The night sky was red when on my drive home. She lived. But I won’t forget the fear, nor the inarticulable sense of cruelty and unfairness.

Two years later and I lay in more excruciating pain. I’ve lost three loves ones since then and the love of my life left me.

The misery rolls on.

The goal of Buddhism is to create Buddhas, not Buddhists, as the goal of Christianity is to create Christs, not Christians.”