A Meaningful Life

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Do you Believe in Magic?.”

You have been transformed into a mystical being who has the ability to do magic. Describe your new abilities in detail. How will you use your new skills?

I would want to have a mysterious glow that is sensed more than seen. I would be able to heal injuries – any injuries – with a touch and some concentration (it shouldn’t be too easy!)

I would make a name for myself as a doctor who cares, and whose patients always, always survive.

So, for example: a friend has a cut? I would brush it with my fingertips, and it would heal at twice the normal speed.

A patient is struggling to make it through? I would use my powers to help him heal, and bring him back from the edge.

I can’t save everyone. If I could, I think more problems would be created than solved. But I want to make my impact on the world. I want to feel like I have helped in some way – I want to have a meaningful life.

Today I had a conversation with J, someone increasingly dear to me. “Everyone wants to be happy,” he said. “It’s only how they get there, what path they take to achieve happiness.”

We don’t always know what we desire, deep down. Sometimes we choose wrong. We make mistakes, we learn from them, and thus slowly understand who we are.

At the moment, I believe having someone to share the good times and bad would make me happy. I just want to share the moments. Smile, laugh, confide, sit next to him and feel his warmth.

I don’t want a power that would make this happen, because then it would lose its essence.

But a healing power would be good. I wish I had it, really.

Love,

Y.

You Could be my Way of Life

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Can’t Drive 55.”

Take the third line of the last song you heard, make it your post title, and write for a maximum of 15 minutes. GO!

I love…

the way you give me your jacket even when I say I’m not that cold.

the way you give me high fives and fist bumps; the way your fingers curled around mine when I spontaneously took your hand for two seconds.

the way you make me laugh, no matter my mood.

the articles you send, always with a note to make me smile.

the way you always ask about my day, and listen when I answer. I love how you listen to me, and consider before replying.

how being with you broadens my horizons, makes me think about new topics, brightens up my day. And I love your laughter.

I might have a pretty bad crush. You’re worth it.

Love,

Y.

Marriage! Babies!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.”

Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

Today I was eating muesli on the kitchen floor… Let me rephrase that: I was sitting on the floor and spooning it from a bowl. This isn’t a reflection of my family’s circumstances (the rest of ’em dine in the living room with placemats, real chairs, you know the deal), just my bad habit.

I put the bowl atop the newspaper pile, so Angelababy’s face was absorbing all the milk spills. For those of you who don’t know – and I don’t know her either, I’m quoting the newspaper – she’s a celebrity from China who just had a princess-themed marriage.

My princess days ended when my older brother made Ken have faux sex with Barbie; as for marriage, well, wait till I have a boyfriend. My parents forbade a relationship on the grounds that I needed to focus on studying (“Until when!?” “Wait till you’re 21, dear.”).

I had one anyway, but broke up because the guy was my best friend, and I couldn’t see him as anything more.

Recently I’ve started seeing someone, and my parents are ecstatic, really – I think they were beginning to worry if I was lesbian – and I’ve been thinking a lot.

For example, the idea of having children before 30. It’s good for you, good for the baby, but what about your career? Did I study for 5 years (that doesn’t include residency) only to settle down and raise kids? Do I even want kids? But after 30 the child has increased risk of Down’s and other chromosomal abnormalities.

Perhaps this is one of those things better solved when you get to it; talked out over tea with your partner.

I also think my gut is laughing hysterically on my pelvic floor. You know what? I’ll think about this more seriously after I have my first kiss.

Asian family. You know.

Love,

Y.

Evil isn’t ugly

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Wicked Witch.”

Write about evil: how you understand it (or don’t), what you think it means, or a way it’s manifested, either in the world at large or in your life.

I once read that if evil was ugly, the world would be good.

Thing is, evil isn’t grotesque. Evil has many faces, and we know it can masquerade as good, as normal, or even as omission of action (ie. doing nothing).

I believe evil is when someone intentionally hurts another person – and doesn’t feel remorseful. I don’t know if there are people who are wholly 100% evil, but I do know that people have moments of it.

Sometimes it’s as simple as a choice: do I do this? Do I not? In a split second we determine who we are. The good thing is, we get to make this choice every moment of the day. So make the good ones. Be the best we can be.

Love,

Y.

Moments Ago

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ode to a Playground.”

A place from your past or childhood, one that you’re fond of, is destroyed. Write it a memorial.

If it was my home, or the park opposite, I would be sad. Otherwise, nothing else really matters. Much has changed, but I haven’t taken notice.

As time passes, the buildings, neighbors, food stalls, pets, and roads keep changing. I have lived here all my life, and I have never seen this place (exactly this way, with three blooms on the bushes and the leaves strewn just so) before. Everything is old, but with the wind everything is made new.

I find it harder to catch the present than the past. If I was to write a memorial, it would be to the moment just passed, whose air I am still exhaling, whose keyboard-touch still lingers on my fingertips.

It’s been a hell of a ride

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Immortalized in Stone.”

Your personal sculptor is carving a person, thing or event from the last year of your life. What’s the statue of and what makes it so significant?

It’s a stethoscope! A delicate winding stone stethoscope! Five months ago I began my clinical years of study. That sounds nice. In reality, we were thrown in the deep end. We sank with strict instructions not to attempt anything without supervision, to keep the patients (and ourselves) safe.

Too many of us turn callous to protect ourselves. The hospital can be scary, more so when you’re new. But we can’t afford to be scared; we cannot freeze. Medicine applicants are screened for empathy, yet the empathic heart stings when a patient yells in pain; shrivels when a patient dies. That is still no excuse for sub-par performance.

So some people grow callous – the ones that don’t know how to protect their hearts, and the ones who only care about keeping their ego safe. One day I may join their ranks, insidiously, not realizing what has happened. I rely on writing to be the mirror that reflects who I am, keeping me real.

My stethoscope has revealed heart flutters, congested lungs, obstructed bowels, aneurysms, and more. It bridges a gap between me and the patient, and the weight around my neck reminds me to keep my head level (nose straight, not in the air), and be the best I can be.