Like you'll never see me again

Sometimes, especially when it was damp and gray outside, she'd walk to the kitchen just before bed and gently leave the cabinet doors open. As if, in her haste, she had forgotten to worry about the small things. And she made sure that it was just enough for him to notice. Then she would climb into bed and wish herself to sleep, hoping that her dreams would spin her out to the calm memories of yesterday's eastern shores. But the sands never came soon enough. And the only times when slumber graced her sheets were when she tried waiting up for him. So completely futile and utterly hopeless it seemed. He would whisper in and out of the covers and just barely tip-toe through her pillows like a ghost. And the only evidence of his midnight existence were those damned wooden compartments, closed shut with rushed purpose and obsessive compulsion. Each new morning became a broken promise for her. And it never got old. It never lost its sting to her.

At times he would take her for nights out on the town. Urban mediocrity and all-for-shows, she thought. Chilled pinots paired to perfection with culinary masterworks of art. They sat across from each other at that quaint little Italian restaurant they used to call their own. Not speaking one real word of meaning to the other. They chit-chatted away the night with small talk and smothered formalities but they both knew that neither would recall the night's conversations at a latter time. They only pretended to invest, when really, they were both only listening to the exchanges at distant tables. Caring vicariously for one another through the newfound love seated in the booth nearby. It wasn't that they forgot how to love, they just assumed that the other did.

And so the ill assumptions piled in. They packed the house and lined up through the door and around the corner, then down the street. Breaking open the walls of past jealousies and forgiven histories until the cry for a coup against rationale and commitment had made itself known. What is to become of us he'd say to himself while pouring himself bottemless cups of coffee in the breakroom. Where did we go wrong she'd think to herself while fighting to wake in the morning. You see, the problem wasn't so much that were tired of each other. Actually they barely knew each other now, if at all. They had spent all their early years wearing their hearts on their sleeves and now they unconsciously made that fundamental error of attribution, thinking they knew precisely what the other was implying. And so they could spend nights together in bed or dinners out in the city without a single expression of emotion. Still both carrying on dialogues of speculation under their breaths. There was no more consideration. But more importantly, no more discovery.

Too proud and stubborn by now, they threw vulnerability out the window a long time ago. And with it they vacated all possibility of honesty. The frustrations sown well beneath their tired exteriors had found a way to blossom. And it was too late now. The wretchedness of passive aggression and never-letting-go's finally got the best of them. Their friends would tell them that their love was dead and buried. Walking through the alleyways and returning to lovey-dovey landmarks by her lonesome, she found that they had all but lost their luster. And stories of red lights and green lights speckled the tarnished writings while expensive sparkles were his ridiculed muse.

They convinced themselves to believe that they tried too hard without enough love. When in reality, the two should have realized that they loved too much and tried too little. He searched for avenues of distraction with her and she mimicked the reminiscent mementos to keep from going under. If only they had taken it slow and learned to move beyond the closed doors of misplaced miseries. If only they understood their compatibility and never let go of their conversational tendencies. If only they accepted the challenge of love and fate and with trust, became each other's true dependencies. If only if only if only. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.. .

Done deal

MD
abbr.

1. also MD: state abbreviation.
2. Mendelevium, (Md): synthetic chemical element.
3. Latin. Medicinae Doctor (Doctor of Medicine).

Here comes Santa Claus

Christmas at David's.

Wake up

I could have never prepared myself for what I was about to see. The semi-sentimental infomercials that you catch late at night, pleading for you to sponsor a poor village child could never compare. On the first day of our medical mission, as we walked through the urban slums of Cambodia, I became incredibly disheartened. Made from stray boards and scavenger sheet metal, the houses could hardly be considered reasonable living conditions by any standards. I saw naked children poke their heads out to stare at the strange visitors with their cameras. But I wasn't taking pictures to show friends back home, I just didn't want to forget the utter feeling of guilt. The gut-wrenching conviction was worsened by the Ivy League T-shirt I was wearing. None of that mattered here; these kids knew nothing of privilege or prestige nonetheless they seemed genuinely happy to see me. They played in garbage-filled ponds, used their sandals as toys, and made their own jewelry from tiny, rolled-up magazine pages they found in the trash. I wondered how they could be so content but the attending I was working with quietly mentioned that "they don't know anything better... that this is their world." And then I understood. I wasn't doing them any favors by giving them canisters of bubble-blowing solution and spearmint gum. In fact, they seemed to lose interest in the balloon animals I constructed for them during mobile clinic and community outreach, quickly passing them up for a short ride atop my shoulders. They wanted me. They hungered for genuine human connection and shared some of it with me. That day, they helped me realize my own poverty. I'd always believed that once I earned my MD, that only then would I be able to make the impact I wanted to on society. But I was slowly realizing that the miracle of healing occurs all over the world by everyday people who have learned the ability to exhibit true compassion.

Sorry man, I slept through a lot of it.. but I don't think it made a difference. Do you think we'll ever change? Do you think we'll ever grow up and stop talking about the things we contemplate about now a days. I don't feel like we can ever fully figure out what we're searching for so that means that one day we'll have to live with uncertainty... and I think for people like you and me this is one of the scariest things to do. But complacency will allow us to recover and we'll get around to getting around it. Don't you want to change the way you believe? Don't you wish you didn't have faith in the things you trust now? I wish I trusted more often and closed my eyes a little less. I feel like we always come back to the same idea and it invades our lives with our relationships with girls and our expectations and our alcohol and our friends and our futures.. What is it about us that won't allow us to get over the details. We can't seem to be free of our own cognition. At first I thought we could revel in our philosophies.. I think at one point we became proud.. and it felt good to be rationally savvy. But then we just forgot to check the price and now we can't take off the darkness. We'll set dates for flights home and dentist appointments, advertise social engagements and gatherings, delight in mysteries and our own shades of abstract just to have something to do tomorrow when in reality we could have died yesterday and been just as happy. It's not so much that we've changed.. maybe the stakes are just higher now and more n more we're finding out that in some areas, we can't just forge our parents signatures anymore. It's hard to say exactly where we'll be ten years from now, but we'll find a way to manage. .. we always do. Thanks for looking out.. I'm lookin out for you too bro. See you in a couple of days, J.