Pavilion of Identities: The Presentation Stage

- This is a work of fiction -

"PhD students these days, they only know how to participate in extra-curricular activities, be a part of those shitty societies, those dumb poetry clubs that the undergraduates joined, and they had the galls to invite me to skip two days of research to holiday in some damn beach!

This is very unlike me; I did my research fifteen hours a day, published five papers and excelled in five modules during my first year alone. My friends were staying up late celebrating some birthday. Who the fuck has time for that? They were not doing it right! They were not true PhD students! This is what I call the culture of students these days.

Hysteresis can be defined using one word: lag. A lag in reacting to a stimulus. A delay in response. It's like if someone presses their finger onto my eyeball, and I feel the intensively painful press. But when they stop pressing, it takes me two seconds to realize that my eyeball is no longer being pressed. That is hysteresis.

But in the end, my eyeball would have bled, no? Actually, it's bleeding right now. And I can't fucking see using my right eye. My demonstration of hysteresis to you has costed me half my sight. 

But I do not have any right to complain, for I pride myself in the lengths I would go to achieve greatness. To be honest, I'm not that great. I just do my best, like everybody else in the world. 

But to fucking sacrifice half my sight just to illustrate a stupid example to you, that is some next level shit right there. But I want you to learn. I want you to understand what I do. 

I have written a paper on hysteresis.

To be precise, corneal hysteresis, or the cornea's lag in response to external stimuli and changes in environment. It's a concept that is so vague, so misunderstood, so... intriguing. Think about it; don't we all experience hysteresis every day? We are slow to respond to changes. We see an assignment going to shit and procrastinate for twenty-one days. And what do we do a day before the deadline? Chugging thirty Red-Bulls while bullshitting all ten-thousand words of the assignment!

Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not part of this "we". I'm different; different from all you shits in the audience! I respond quickly, effectively, and greatly. A task assigned to me will be instantaneously responded with a high-quality completion the very next day. This is so that I can spend the next twenty-one days improving on my already perfect assignment!

But that's all gone to shit! I'm half-blind now, and I need two eyes to produce great work. Who's to blame now, huh? It's not that I don't want to be great, it's because of you shits in the audience who blinded me, who actively tried to stop me from surpassing you, so that you shits can celebrate some birthday, so that you shits can holiday in some damn beach, without worrying about me stepping on your sorry heads!

It's your fault. If you knew what hysteresis was in the first place, I wouldn't have to instantaneously respond to your confused expressions with a live demonstration of corneal hysteresis! A demonstration that costed me half my sight, my life, my future, and the happiness of everyone who love me.

Just kidding, shitheads. I was gonna go blind anyways. The intraocular pressure in my eye has reached an astonishing high level, and I was at a severe risk of contacting glaucoma, which would've rendered me blind anyways.

But my eye still hurts from that demonstration.

Hey, I'm not complaining. I'm just stating facts.

The fact that my paper has been published before you shitheads.

The fact that I blinded myself in front of you shitheads.

The fact that I made you shitheads feel guilty for five minutes.

The fact that...

all I want

is for someone to stay up late

and celebrate my birthday..."

Pavilion of Identities: Aisle of Hatred

- This is a work of fiction -

A lonely group of people embraced the quietness of the pavilion. Shivering from their own shadows. They walked down the aisle of hatred and they tried to love others. They told me that they needed me to help them feel love again.

A truth from the worldwide culture of alcohol and sex and drugs and doing absolutely nothing. A norm, yet we accepted and lived through it. A norm, yet aren't we but normal people?

But they still sought my help. They wanted me to prove them wrong; that they could love and be loved. Having lost all sense of direction, they were in a bleak state of utter despair. They anticipate nothing, not even their state of living. 

But they wanted me to give them a reason to be missed. They wanted to end their lives, yet they wanted their legacy to remain. A corrupted sense of pride, I thought. But what if I used to be them? Have I ever considered how human it is to feel loneliness and having thoughts of giving up?

Do they understand the truth? Do I understand them?

I used to be them. I used to be me. That was the me that I hated, but that was the same me that defined the present me. Until they're gone, I would have never known of their importance in my life.

I step forward and peeked over the bridge. An endless abyss, all leading back to the same pavilion. The same dark pavilion. The same dark place I never wanted to be in again. Yet, I learned the way out, but not how to figure a way out.

We're learning something every day, aren't we?

But we all dream and we all wake. It's a cycle of life, between cold hard reality and the comfort of a personal fantasy. Yet, if this fantasy looms over you like a dark cloud of your very own shadow, it would be better not to dream at all. Reality ain't that bad.

Or so we thought.

But which is worse, to live in a dream or to dream to live?

We're just so damn tired from it all.

And I used to think that I'm different. I thought I was unique, deserving of all the friendships and love and praise. I thought I have escalated past the pedestal of being human.

But I'm them and we're we.

We stare at the aisle of hatred from an isle afar. We swim closer. Those great white jaws and those electrifying jelly stings. We risk it all. We are almost there. 

Why are we swimming towards an aisle, much less an aisle of hatred, if the isle is connected to all the world's lands and seas through the very same blue that is leading us to the aisle of hatred?

A cramped aisle, dirty yet comforting, for we feel protected, by all the rubbish around us, from all the rubbish around us.

As we walk down the aisle, what can we possibly witness, other than the cries of our own shivering shadows?