If there is one thing I learned from today, it’s that the time you are dealt with in the present can affect the time you are faced with in the future. In a split second, the whole outcome of a given day can change, and we can’t do anything but throw ourselves into this current of change, letting it sweep us into a place that was unknown previously.

Today, I got into a car accident.

In a situation where urgency envelops our five senses, time seems to move as a snapshot of moments, a visual collage of still-frame photos hastily jumbled up into one. As the back of my car rear-ended another car pulling out of the driveway, the concept of linear time vanished, and I saw the moments of my life collapse in front of my eyes just as the back bumper of my car collapsed onto the ground.

There are five stages of overcoming grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Usually, I don’t appreciate this compartmentalization of feelings into five distinct categories, since one cannot fully detect what stage one is in. However, as soon as my car collided with the oncoming car, adrenaline took over and I vehemently denied reality like Peter denying his discipleship with Jesus at the brink of dawn.

But the crux of the accident came with the bargaining stage, where I suddenly felt betrayed by the very same world that born me into it. In that 30 second window of leaving my house and backing out of my garage, the forces of the world played a game of Poker against me, stacking the odds and manipulating the deck of cards so that I would be left with no choice but to rear-end the car.

And that got me thinking for a bit. Had I left the house 30 seconds earlier or 30 seconds later, I would never have crashed into the car, and I would have moved on with my day just like any other days: serene and accident-free. Of course, I decided to leave my house at the middle ground of those two time intervals, the other person’s car decided to pull into the drive way at that precise time frame, and the world decided to play a sick joke, rendering both our cars and our well-being damaged.

Now that I’ve had some time to gain composure and analyze the accident in retrospect, I find it startlingly peculiar how these two automobiles – these two entities – happened to be in the same place at the same time, undertaking the same action in a same particular pattern. For this car accident to have happened, the world had to be working with us so that it creates a perfectly timed, beautifully choreographed sequence of action. The world was the director, and we were the actors playing in its movie.

If the movie had a title to it, it would be “Fate.” Objectively speaking, there are tens and thousands of car accidents that happen every day, and the two agents that are involved in the car crash were also carried by the serendipitous encounter of two worlds converging into one. We say that time is a succession of moments, which is accurate to a certain extent. But these moments are comprised of every individual fate encounters we have, and the way we experience the world and our surroundings are orchestrated by fate.

On that note, I won’t blame myself too much on the car accident, as this was all a part of the bigger picture in the course of my life. One fateful accident should not overshadow the numerous other fateful encounters I’ve had that were positive, life-changing, and wholesome. So now, after 24 hours since the derailment of my car’s back bumper, I write in tranquility, knowing that there are many more beautiful happenstances waiting for me out there, whether that beauty turns out to be glorious or quite calamitous.


“She seemed too fragile to exist; but that very fragility spoke of some frightening strength which held her anchored to existence with a body insufficient to reality…”

-Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

“To say “I love you” one must know first how to say the “I”.”

-Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

“She was dazzling – alight; it was agony to comprehend her beauty in a glance.”

-F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

“There were pauses that seemed about to shatter and were only to be snatched back to oblivion by the tightening of his arms about her and the sense that she was resting there as a caught, gossamer feather, drifted in out of the dark.”

-F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

“And the dilutions of his letters with affectionate diminutives began to be mechanical and unspontaneous…”

-F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

“He felt that to succeed here the idea of success must grasp and limit his mind.”

-F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

“They stood silently before each other for a moment, and she thought that the most beautiful words were those which were not needed.”

-Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

“I don’t know which is the greater strength: to accept all this for you – or to love you so much that the rest is beyond acceptance. I don’t know. I love you too much.”

-Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

“But to be conventional is the only abnormality possible between us.”

-Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

“There is a kind of dignity in a renunciation of dignity openly admitted.”

-Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

“No man can give another the capacity to think. Ye that capacity is our only means of survival.”

-Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

“Civilization is the process of setting man free from men.”

-Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

“He wondered whether the peculiar solemnity of looking at the sky comes, not from what one contemplates, but from that uplift of one’s head.”

-Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

“Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell.”

-Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s

“…our understanding of each other had reached that sweet epth where two people communicate more often insilence than in words…”

-Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s

“Oh, Jesus God. We did belong to each other. He was mine.”

-Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s

“You keep them a stranger, a stranger who’s a friend.”

-Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s

“If we understand that, and act on it, not only will life be more satisfying, right off, but our grandchildren, or our great grandchildren, might possibly see a different and marvelous world.”

-Howard Zinn, A People’s History of the United States

“And in such a world of conflict, a world of victims and executioners, it is the job of thinking people, as Albert Camus suggested, not to be on the side of the executioners.”

-Howard Zinn, A People’s History of the United States

“However, [history] rushes on, as it always did, with two forces racing toward the future, one splendidly uniformed, the other ragged but inspired.”

-Howard Zinn, A People’s History of the United States


On August 8th, 2015, at 5:00 PM, My contract with Explo was officially terminated.

As the clock struck its bell five times, co-workers around me celebrated in glee, intentionally yelling obscenities to further signify the end of a working period. It was joyful moment, definitely. The culmination of being at Wheaton College for the past 7 weeks all pointed to this particular moment, where everyone could bask in the glory and pride of having been through it all.

Time, relatively speaking, is a dizzying concept. In the matter of 7 weeks, something that felt so far away approached me in an instant, and something that seemed to be in an instant felt longingly far. I was thoroughly impressed by the elastic quality of time, and I found myself once again obeying its game of push-and-pull. But perhaps this relativity is precisely the reason why we tend to remember time as an instance in a specific moment of our lives. As I sit in the corner of an airport cafe writing this post, I can say that even though my experiences at Explo weren’t always positive, my time at Explo was wonderful.

To truly celebrate the end of an era, we (the people of Explo) drove to Providence, Rhode Island, to spend our last night together at Dave & Buster’s, an arcade-style restaurant that can accurately be portrayed as an adult version of Chuck-e-Cheese’s. With our heart filled with the possibility of what tonight could bring into our lives, we nimbly marched up the escalator and made our way into the entrance of Dave & Buster’s.

Inside the place, a luxuriously quaint venue was waiting for us, and we took that venue like Alexander the Great ceasing the land of Egypt. At this juncture in time, the concept of work-related hierarchy vanished into thin air, and we all gave up our titles that we so closely identified ourselves with in the past 7 weeks –  residential adviser, programming assistant, assistant dean, and so on. In that venue, we were just a person talking to another person, an individual conversing with another individual, a human soul interacting with another human soul. The beauty in the deconstruction of our identity was surely evident in that room, and no one could deny the fact that we survived the summer together and survived it quite gloriously.

As alcohol slowly warmed up our physical and social self, emotions started to intensify, motions became wilder, and words started to mingle into an incoherent slur. Being lighter than a feather, I only needed two sips of diluted vodka to feel the effect of alcohol on my conscience. It’s interesting how one realizes the change inside one’s body, but there is absolutely nothing one does to counteract this change. As alcohol slowly disseminated throughout my digestive system, I took the form of a debutante in the Roaring Twenties: overtly sociable and obnoxiously laudatory of others.

The night succumbed to the elasticity of time once again, and the idea of hours and minutes seemed to lose its function as a means of tracking time. Everybody was now in a state of inebriation, and you could not deny the cataclysmic shift in some people’s personality when they are drunk. At the arcade area, the effects of alcohol could be seen clearly; It was as if one could physically see profanity floating around in the atmosphere, waiting to be devoured by another foul-mouthed individual.

But inside the details of profanity and vulgarity, I could detect the untethered happiness of everyone. If a movie director walked in and shot a still frame of the arcade room, there would have been joy radiating from the frame. The smiles were genuine, the hugs were passionate, and the lives of everyone were being lived the way they should be lived. Looking on from a bar table, I could not help but solemnly grin at the visual manifestation of the end of Explo and – quite frankly – the end of our companionship.

All great movies have memorable endings, and this night was no exception. When the clock struck midnight, everybody faced the inevitable that they have all been avoiding since the beginning of tonight: saying goodbyes. Usually, I am unaffected by farewells, as I believe that our lives are the culmination of goodbyes and hellos we say in our lives, and that tonight is also an instant where my belief is validated. But my emotion could not be deceived, and I felt empty with each goodbye I uttered to everyone I met at Explo. I think that farewell is a tangible indication of the emotional proximity between two individuals, and each goodbye revealed to me just how close I was with some of these people.

In the end, however, farewells are what give meaning to the encounters we have with others. We remember things that we miss and things that are not in our lives anymore, and as I am writing this, I am feeling the void of Explo more than ever. But my time at Explo was beautiful because I got to say goodbye. So once again, we all depart back into another sphere of our lives, knowing that our spheres commingled over the summer, and that we commingled pretty damn tightly.


I have not been to church in 6 weeks.

First, it started off as a result of preoccupation with my summer job. Then, I reached a state of complacency where going to church did not seem as urgent as it did before. Now, my absence from church almost feels normal, as if I never went to church ever in my life. The effect 6 weeks can have on my spiritual well-being can be overwhelmingly transformative. 6 weeks ago, I attended two church services each Sunday, devoutly praying for my Lord and savior. Since then, my identity as a Christian has been compromised to the point where I am quite uncertain where I stand in my faith.

In a societal framework, however, I am transparently a Christian, and my mannerism all point to Christianity when I am engaged in a conversation with a church member. I have Christian friends, attend a Korean-American Presbyterian Church, keep a Bible of my own on my desk, and am a member of the Amherst Christian Fellowship. All these man-made coalitions to legitimize the status of our own Christian beliefs, I am a part of. And most of the times, we are so immersed in the moment of exonerating our sins to the Lord that we forget to stop and think about what we are thinking in these times of repentance, fellowship, and evangelism. To put in honestly, Christians devalue the concept of meta-cognition, and this paradigm needs to shift.

Couple months ago, I attended an unofficial praise night hosted by my church partly motivated by my desire to reconnect with my peers. When I walked in, the dim stage light and pious looks of my friends’ faces greeted me. In this sacred room where all my friends felt secure in the name of the Lord, I felt as if I stumbled into a foreign territory. Like a mirage on a scorching day, everybody in the room seemed so tangible yet so ephemeral to me. It took me a while to exactly pinpoint how I was feeling, and when I did, I refused to admit it to myself. But more than ever, I felt lost in that moment.

As the praise leader reached the apex of his worship, I looked up from my groveling self to look around the room. In the dimly lit room, I saw my friends kneeling down on the ground with their arms pointing towards the stage platform. Once my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, I started noticing the uniformity of everyone’s body positions. It was as if they were following a formula in the art of worship: one must have his/her knees bent, head bowed at a 45 degrees angle, arms raised ever so slightly above their comfortable positions, and mouth moving rapidly to incite the prayers in one’s mind.

I got scared and promptly underwent an existential crisis, in which I kept asking myself what everybody was doing in this room. Here we were, all methodically praising a deity that we believe in because of this idea called faith and this book called the Bible. I felt forlorn in this strangely cult-ish atmosphere and wondered if any other soul in this room felt the way I did: confused and disillusioned.

The fine medium between religious conformation and spiritual individuality is a difficult one to locate, let alone understand. There are so many instances where ordinary people (I do not wish to demarcate redemption to only sinners and criminals) find liberation through the form of religion or – in my case – Christianity. But today’s practice of Christianity seems to put such heavy emphasis on the nature of bureaucracy and homogeneity. In a sermon, there are rarely any listeners who raise their hands to ask questions about the sermon. Why is that so? It’s because when a listener asks a question to a pastor, it doesn’t translate to simply an individual talking to an individual but rather an individual speaking out against an institution. In a metonymical sense, the pastor is the church, and the church is the pastor. Vaguely 1984-esque, huh?

With all this being said, I always tend to gravitate towards Christian organizations and confide in my Christian friends more than my secular friends. I have qualms about the church – and any bureaucratic organizations in general -, but I also believe that people’s lives are saved and changed daily by the church. Five years ago, I remember a fight that broke out between my mom and my dad. I earnestly prayed to God that the fight will cease, and within minutes after my prayer, my mom apologized to my dad. So, on September 5th, 2010, I made a solemn acknowledgment to myself, saying I take Jesus Christ as my savior.

Maybe my criticism towards Christianity stems from how far I strayed away from this innocent attitude I had. As I grew older, my world got bigger, my vocabulary more complex, my thoughts more metaphysical, and my views more cynical. To quote The Little Prince, I would now be in the demographic of people that would see a hat and call it a hat, not an elephant engulfed by a boa constrictor. Coupled with this mental growth was the ability to ask more questions about my identity, and the first question I asked was my identity as a Christian. But if I dig into the essence of Christianity, it’s quite simple: God loved us so much that he gave his one and only son, Jesus Christ, to save us from our sins.

Christianity is a beautiful love story, and I wish the story stayed untainted and pure. I want to tell this love story to other people unabashedly and proudly.  I want to feel how I felt on September 5th, 2010. I want to relive the moment where I felt so audaciously compelled the proclaim my life to the Lord. I want to stop making deceitfully affirmative responses to friends who ask me how my walk with Jesus is. I want to accept Christianity for what it is and not what it became.

First step in solving a problem is to realize that there is one, and in the past 6 weeks, I’ve become numb to the convenience of not identifying myself with a religion. It’s time for me to start trying.


If the world is an onion, one can peel off each layer by learning the languages of different countries. One can’t truly experience a culture until they have fully acquired the language of that culture, because within a language, that specific culture’s history is embedded in it. For example, in English, one would say “let’s go to my house,” since the word “my” is the fundamental indicator of the possession of a house. However, in Korean, one would say “let’s go to our house.” Even in this subtle change in diction, there is already a sizable implication that comes with it. The word “our” is the fundamental indicator in the Korean language; in other words, using the word “my” would not be correct syntactically in Korean. Just in this example, we can trace the histories of the two cultures back to their origins: Korea was founded upon a Confucian ideal, where filial piety and the idea of family predominates the culture. On the other hand, America fosters the concept of rugged individualism, where rags-to-riches stories and capitalistic spirit embodies the heart of Americans.

Once I understood the liberation languages can provide, I began wondering how cut off I am from the rest of the world both culturally and intellectually. There are over 180 countries in the world and roughly 6500 different languages are spoken, even though some of them have fewer than 1000 speakers. I, on the other hand, can only speak two languages fluently: English and Korean.

In a societal setting, my bilingual ability can be looked upon favorably. I can serve as an interpreter in a situation where both parties cannot fully speak each other’s languages, or I can thoroughly cross-examine both languages – English and Korean – and explore the different nuances both have. But there are only so many languages one can master, given the capacity of one’s brain to hold all the information. I once came across a video of a student named Tim Doner who could fluently speak 19 languages, including French, Urdu, Swahili, Spanish, and more. The initial moment of awe subsided once I realized 19 languages is infinitesimal compared to the 6500 languages, and even a polyglot like Tim could not decipher the world through the lens of our oral communication.

An interesting thought emerged while I was listening to a Chinese pop music the other day. I, being of Korean descent, know next to nothing about the Chinese language, except the fact that there are tonal aspects in the language which alters the meaning of words. The song was that of a typical rock ballad: the main vocalist spearheads the music video with a passionately desperate chorus while the instrumentalists complement the vocal line with an up-tempo beat.

In the song, there was emotion begging to be delivered and lyrics pining to be interpreted. But to a foreigner’s ear (me), the lyrics essentially amounts to noise. The reason language exists is to convert the sounds our mouths make into something that holds meaning in our brains. No matter how crisply the singer may articulate his words, I will not understand Chinese, and therefore, the lyrics won’t translate into something meaningful to me. But for a listener from mainland China, the lyrics will actually hold a meaning of some sort, and this “noise” that I hear will materialize as an idea for those that can speak the Chinese language.

The very idea of multiculturalism comes from this notion that humans have found a way to express their thoughts and their emotions in a completely different way both phonetically and syntactically. Language arose from our need to communicate, and this necessity became a cornerstone of human achievement. Ironically enough, our desire to communicate became the very reason why a Japanese cannot hold a leisurely conversation with a Brazilian, why English is now the lingua franca in a business meeting, and why I cannot understand this Chinese music I’m listening to right now.


I am a product of two worlds: as of April, 2016, I would have spent 10 years of my life in South Korea and 10 years of my life in the United States. The Pacific Ocean separating the two countries has also created a distinct identity for me where I am able to synthesize the ingredients from the two worlds to form a world view that may seem like a potpourri of Eastern and Western culture.

My world view is paradoxically balanced. I find the juxtaposition of two entirely different practices in South Korea and the United States to somehow line up to create a refreshingly original customary practice. For example, the Korean ideal in the context of academics espouses the most diligent effort in all the studies one undertakes; however, the American ideal works a little bit different in that students are encouraged to find a new perspective of looking at studies, therefore reinforcing this “rugged individualism” idea that many Americans hold close to their hearts. To strike the balance between these two ideals, I approached academics in an innovative mindset, but instead of learning a smattering of everything, I worked to diligently make progress in the new path that I set out for myself.

So far, I did a decent job maintaining the two distinct cultural heritages in myself. Recently, however, I was struck with an imbalance of my two identities and found my American influence engulfing the South Korean ideal that I held dearly. My world is a constant battle of push and pull, and this time, it seems as if my American heritage pulled a little bit harder than my other side.

I am currently working at Exploration Summer Program as a residential adviser and a course instructor for fourth and fifth graders (affectionately deemed as the “Pioneers”). But in a watered-down term, I am basically taking care of 12 kids on my floor constantly, from 7AM to 9:30PM with only a two-hour break in between. And in the past five weeks of being a resident adviser for these fourth and fifth graders, I realized that this age group is at a very precocious stage of life. They have yet to develop a sense of identity for themselves, and they lack the ability to empathize with one another: the world is just as they see it and not according to anyone else’s. It’s wondrous what puberty does to a child with a parochial view of the world.

I, too, was once this narrow-minded child who lived by the motto “my way or the highway.” A brutishly egotistical child to say the least, I hurt a lot of people in my childhood growth. My mother would recount to me a specific story, where I savagely bit off a chunk of skin from a kid at a public playground because he refused to get off the swings when I told him to do so. Although my days of borderline cannibalism is put to rest, I still see the 9 year old me in some of the kids that are on my floor, and I wonder how different I would be now had I spent my childhood years in America.

Maybe that’s why I’m so conflicted with my attitude recently. Growing up in South Korea, I spent most of my days without the supervision of my parents, who were busy with work during the day. My parents were very laissez-faire when it came to my social interaction with other peers: they let me do whatever the fuck I wanted to do, partly because they were not there to see it.

So I made mistakes growing up, and I still look back and cringe at some of the things I did. I made some faux pas that I am not proud of, intentionally hit my friends with really no intention, and crushed on girls that I was too embarrassed to admit. Simply put, I was – undeniably and inextricably – a child in its purest form. But nothing curtailed my childhood; rather, my childhood naturally tapered off into puberty, and the transition was smooth because I learned from the mistakes I made. Admittedly, the lessons were all the more valuable because I taught them myself.

But at Explo, I am directly contradicting everything my childhood stood for. From the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep, I play the role of a surveillance helicopter, ceaselessly watching every minute interaction among the kids. Once I see a physical altercation ever so small as a pat to the back, I step in to make sure no “physical aggression” happens again. Initially, I justified my micro-management as one of the many duties a residential adviser must perform so that all students feel safe emotionally and physically.

However, it’s becoming scarily clear that I’m not doing this as an obligation but as an instinct. The American ideal of childhood seems to be marked with over-protection compared to that of South Korea. When I was growing up, kids were to be kids, and when a conflict arose, kids figured it out themselves. In America, however, adults usually intervene to appease the conflict between children. The self-pedagogy that was so essential to my childhood development is nowhere to be seen in this program, and I look around to see way too many staff members talking to students about problems that could easily be solved within the students themselves.

Even with this in mind, I once again find myself reprimanding a student for fighting over who has possession of the basketball. It’s an interpersonal conflict that’s easily solvable without my mediation. But I’ve assimilated too much to go back to who I was before.

Perhaps that’s why I feel hollow when the day is over and I reflect back on all the unnecessary interventions. Each student is like a mirror, and I always see myself and everything that I was when I talk to them. And each time I intervene, I am tainting the pristine condition of what used to be my childhood. It’s a wretched feeling when I want the kids to experience an undisturbed childhood, and yet I am the very agent that’s preventing them from doing so.


In late May, Amherst had its reunion for the Class of 1950-2010 with intervals of five years in each of the classes. Each class received a tent in which parties were thrown, social gatherings were held, and conversations were created. Walking chronologically from the earliest class to the most recent, I couldn’t help but feel as if I was entering into a silent, black-and-white film and exiting out of an IMAX movie. Each tent was a historical snapshot of that time period: elderly white male comprised the class of 1950 tent, few African-American men held their martinis in the class of 1970 tent, and women engaged in political conversations in the class of 1980 tent. The campus turned into a conglomeration of alums ranging from their mid-twenties to early-nineties.

Sometime before midnight, I mindlessly ambled into the class of 1970 tent and found an elderly couple sitting in the corner of the tent. The two seemed to be engrossed in a conversation as they did not see me approaching them. Call it an act of bravery or an act of foolishness, but I decided to sit right next to them and insert myself into the dialogue. It was only after I introduced myself as an Amherst class of 2018 that the couple put down its xenophobic barrier.

We drifted aimlessly into different topics, ranging from Amherst in its 1970s to American politics to the menu for breakfast to the bland taste of the bartender’s alcohol and to the couple’s marriage. When the topic of marriage surfaced, John and Sarah – the names of the couple – assumed a new demeanor, a demeanor that I haven’t seen until now: a demeanor of nostalgia. I asked them how long they have been married for. “40 years,” answered John, “and it was faith that kept us going all these days.”

Faith, in the context of relationship, is more than just trusting one another. There is a fine line between faith and trust that seems to elude me even to this day. When you get to know a person well enough, you develop a sense of trust for that particular person, but does that mean you have faith in him/her as well? To be honest, I can’t say for sure if I know the answer to that question, but I know there is a fundamental difference in saying “I trust you” compared to “I have faith in you.”

Last December, I started dating a girl from my dormitory who lived couple doors down from me. A ritual marked by innocence and naivete, we started on this journey called relationship together and learned to adjust to this new lifestyle. As winter changed to summer and summer to spring, other concepts and emotions entered our relationship, such as jealousy, miscommunication, love, intimacy, wistfulness, and future. But it was this summer that the idea of faith came into our lives.

Having been separated for over three months – and I know some long-distance couples are shaking their heads at the adolescent tone of my commentary -, I feel this constant emptiness in myself, an oblivion that seemed to have formed in the corner of my heart. This oblivion amplifies in times when I am by myself and have time to think, and the loneliness of not being with my significant other becomes hard to bear. But it is the faith we have in each other that seems to keep us (or at least me) going.

And it’s not just the faith in each other but a faith in the promise of the present and faith in the hope of the future. If trust guarantees security, faith promises eternity. When two people have faith in each other, they are not merely safe in the now, but they are eternally liberated from their past, present, and the future, and they have the ability to craft a life parallel to the aspirations of each other. I don’t like to think that relationship is a compromise between the two people but rather a transformation between two souls, and it’s through faith that this transformation can happen.

Through this time of separation, I can see this transformation happening inside us. We are so different from who we were seven months ago, and yet it feels like nothing has changed since that fateful day in December. Maybe that’s what being in a relationship really is all about: we are not changing constantly but rather changing in constancy.

When I realized all this, John’s sentiment towards his wife seemed all the more clear. Yes, it was faith that kept them going all these days, and how beautiful is it that John and Sarah are now living the faith of the future they used to dream of in their younger days?


When the beginning of June rolled around, all I could think about was going home. Home to where my family was, home to where I could sit in my room and look at old memorabilia arranged across my shelf, home to a quick game of Super Smash Bros with my brother, home to where everything was familiar again.

Flash forward to June 22 and I am already packing to leave for Norton, Massachusetts, where I would be working as a course instructor and a residential adviser for Exploration Summer Programs. As I wait for the shuttle that would take me to Wheaton College, I think for a moment: is this my new home for the next two months?

I open the door to my room in a slow but succinct movement. The first thing I notice is the barrenness of the room. Everything is grotesquely clean: the white tile floors are spotless, the beds meticulously lined up next to the walls, and the desk making an exacting right angle with the corner. I set my luggage down next to the desk, hoping that my luggage does not ruin the congruence of the room.

When a person has time to think, all emotions heighten and all feelings amplify. Sitting there on my bed, I think for a moment. Not anything in particular, but I find comfort in the fact that I am thinking in this very moment and that I am proving my existence through it. My thoughts drift into nothing, and this nothingness drifts me into a state of loneliness. I look around my room and see the walls looking back at me. The white bricks sit neatly on top of each other, and they make a geometric pattern so mathematical that I couldn’t help but chuckle at the disorientation of myself.

‘This is my home,’ I think. Sooner or later, the desk will be filled with half-eaten snacks, my laptop, the water bottle I never use, paper copies of student handouts, and sunscreen. Blankets and bed sheets will sprawl across the mattress, disrupting the perfection that used to be this room. Dirty clothes will greet the white tile floor with malice, cabinets will be met with endless stacks of towels.

However, the more I try to organize this room like my home, the more I feel distant from it. They say home is where the heart is, but you can’t understand that concept unless you locate your heart first. Is this room my home? What is home? My heart feels the weight of the questions pushing down.

The questions still encircle my mind. Eventually, I will be leaving my traditional definition of a “home” back in Washington when I enter the so-called real world in a couple of years. When I settle down at a new place, this place will then be my new “home.” Home is an ephemeral concept; it is not bound by the construction of familiarity but freed through the ever-changing cycle of our lives.

But as I lie down on my Wheaton dormitory bed and think about what my mom, my dad, and my brother are doing back in Washington, I realize I am not ready to face the harsher realities of life. I go to sleep clutching my pillow with my arms and legs, unable to let go of the old habits ingrained in me since I was young.