Today marks day 7 of mostly isolating. Still COVID positive, but my fever has finally gone away. I will be set to go back into work tomorrow. Today, I cooked myself a couple hamburgers and walked outside for the first time in a week. I am masking up, once again.
In the year of 2024, I will be 26.
In 2025, I’ll be 27.
2026, 28.
2027, 29.
2028, 30.
2029, 31.
2030, 32.
2035, 37.
2040, 42.
2045, 47.
2050, 52.
2060, 62.
2070, 72.
2080, 82.
2090, 92.
3000, 102. The idea of getting older scares me.
Because within each day I’ve lived, I’m supposed to be proud of it? When I grow older, I’d like to be so wise and content that no matter what had happened, I could look back at it with fondness, little pain, just a peace.
In these days, my youth falters at each beats per minute of my heart. They say a heart that beats fast is one that hasn’t done much cardio, and I’ve been meaning to strengthen it, yet this past year and a half, my physical being feels put on hold as it uses all of its energy at the cafe. I don’t think it’s entirely my physicality that lacks the motivation, but it is my mentality that has made it so uninspired.
I am finding myself in moments where I sit still for minutes, every 10, 20 minutes, or hour. There are conversations in my heads, golden conversation, such good writing, and I tell myself — Thi, don’t forget to write that down. This would make a great dialogue, story.. a great continuance of one character’s arc, a solid metaphor that would get people thinking, too.
And so, the pen reveals itself.
It usually does.
But in these days, I cannot find it in my muscles to write with that pen with those great thoughts. It is forgotten later. Or I somehow naively believe that no matter if it is written down or not, I know it’s still deep within me, if I dig, search for it, or maybe it’ll come up on its own if it is meant to be discovered again.
So, my indifference has been great these days. My muscles are hugely atrophied, I think, and it’s not a great look. Not exactly what I’d want my family or close friends to hear, yet I am being honest.
Okay, something cheerful instead? I cooked myself hamburger and had it on my rooftop patio earlier today. I had a few more moments of sitting still, allowing the last rays of the warm sun this year to golden my hair. It is one of the best feelings in the world: the sun on my back. I sent a few photos to family to which only my mom and sister reacted with an emoji. And I guess that’ll do.
Almost two years ago when I visited Boston for the first time, I explored the city’s seaport with a German guy from the hostel I stayed at. On our way there, we stopped by Euro-style corner of Boston’s North End. We escalated a cricket-y old staircase of America’s so-called oldest restaurant, the Oyster House. We were aware it was a tourist trap, but the place had its own merit, as the stall next to ours had a plaque claiming that it was once a former president’s favorite booth to sit and dine at.
Three-quarters into dinner, I looked up to Marcus and thanked him for joining me. He reflected the same sentiments, and we talked of our other times we’ve gone to visit other cities to eat with strangers. We agreed that it was always insightful and something to be cherished, as hey, these are the kind of people that we end up remembering, right? Yes.
Then Marcus told me something that other strangers have repeated to me over the course of my life, “No matter how great or bad the food is. Food is better with company.”
And so, I am hoping by sharing this snippet of this proudly made hamburger meal with you, whomever is reading this, that you are with me. I have mustered what little energy I’ve had these days, and I’m sharing it with you. And that my food is better with you.
