Inadequately So

Last night, as I sat reading Mr. Monk's blog updates forwarded to me by his fellow Princeton alum, I had solemnly drawn a single conclusion about myself.

I am inadequate.

And the realization sets in stronger with every additional word I read.

I hate to compare, as I truly believe in personal style and fluidity. But sometimes, comparison is not about absolute worth. It is not about being inferior; definitely not about being the lesser nor the fool. It is simply being weighed on a pair of scale and you realize that you are relatively so down there. It really is about someone tracing a visible line around your comfort zone, and you alarmingly realize that it is way too small. So, thank goodness that it happened before you turn claustrophobic in there. Time to space out.

Pardon me for jumping into this turbulent mental journey of reflection. Just like how a tsunami hits the shore, his blog swept me off my feet without warning. Quick and deadly. I am left in a state of semi-shock, semi-awe, and totally inspired.

What is it about this person who had single-handedly deflated my fat writer ego? After all, we had trodden the same academic (and along the way, touristy) path from America to Japan, had equally inspiring karaoke and izakaya moments, and are rather similar in our American-East Asian views. What else could be so impressive and unexpected of someone I thought so familiar?

The value of being still thinking and writing about anything, and everything. At a royal age of 31, yet.

It would probably be less surprising if this is a jolly young undergrad I'm talking about, since we all have our years of being curious and hence terribly energetic and involved. But ten years can do alot to a man, and it is quite disturbing to learn that someone is still obsessively penning personal events and at the same time, engaged in reviewing local and foreign art films, exploring old town charms, expressing views on racial acceptance and historical ambiguity, cataloging travel thoughts, running the usual laps around Central Park, noticing sad synthesized sounds in train stations (whatever that is) and making clever jokes about his own academic career. He has not lost that zest for life.

Sounds exactly like how I want to be.

In some ways, I really dislike being in Singapore, where I have no guts to be different from whom everyone thought they knew I was, no guts to be having it all my own way like how I had it when I lived on my own, thousand of miles away from familiar territory. I've retreated into my former shadow so that I can be marching in step with my peers on the road to 'certified success'.

I sorely dislike the fact that I, now, have zero involvement in anything else than work and can only write about petty, mundane things about myself. I have been subconsciously refraining from passing judgment or making statements on anything more significant than my short, unprolific life. You see, I am becoming more detached with age and I consider that a good thing. Less emotional baggage and more heart to live every moment. No more frustration or anger at social unjust; no tearing my hair out over ridiculous politics or befuddling economics. After all, it's ashes to ashes, as in the Buddha's way to transcendent truth. If I only believed in it.

Alas, I have also become an apathetic bystander at the same time, my head too high in the clouds to feel the nuances and voices of life that surround me. A large part of me is feeling nostalgia for the brash, opinionated and lively self. The old self that I've found in this senpai. O-hisashiburi da.