Sihay

Time runs, or walks, or sometimes creeps up on you. Or it stands still. It moves relatively. It races you, and you will barely keep up. And you’ll be left behind.

Here’s my creed whenever I’m learning something new or trying to be better at something I find fascinating. So many things to learn and so little time. I said it when I was in med school, cramming several chapters of a book into my tiny little brain, when I dove headfirst into bioinformatics because the entire planet succumbed to a 50 nm virus. The labs were closed, and the only way to finish my study was to do it in silico. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I said it when I was treading between dreams and consciousness, dizzy with antidepressants and the symphony of accompanying side effects. I say it every day now as I’m thrown into the field of forensics, scrambling for whatever kernel of knowledge I can get to keep up with the demands of a job I love. I say it because my drawings and paintings fall way behind my inner critic’s standards.

Always. So many things, and so little time.

We’re defined by the things we create, and I’d hate to think that the work that constantly falls behind my own standards, these annoying mediocrities, will forever define me. They say it takes 10,000 hours to be good at something. It takes 10,000 hours to get all the shitty writing, to fail at experiments, to create awful drawings before you can call yourself an expert. Toiling daily for something you love is hard, but it’s not something to whine about. It doesn’t, however, free you from the impatience of doing this day in and day out — knowing where you want to go, seeing it so clearly on the horizon,fully aware there will never be a shortcut to get there. This gets amplified when you find yourself always the youngest person in the room, playing the grown-up even though you constantly need to scramble for anything that will help you understand, and catch up. I cram my days with classes, readings as these constant motions, to a degree, numb my doubts.

I still wonder where this hodgepodge of knowledge will lead me. I wonder where curiosity ends and the chaos and the crippling indecision will ensue. People somehow find the perfect time to tell me to focus, to choose one path and just do it well, that I’ll never be good at anything if I do everything. They seem to know when my self-doubts are at their worst.

I know I couldn’t finish big projects simultaneously, but it doesn’t mean I need to stop doing something that truly gives me joy, does it? It’s a long life. People get multiple degrees, sometimes unrelated to each other. Scientists make generous contributions to the arts. Writers can be athletes, or crafters, or gamers. Who was the smart ass who said you need to box yourself into one purpose in this winding, confusing life?

I won’t pretend that I don’t relish the egotistic self-flagellation from time to time — whenever I see half-done paintings I started years ago, unfinished manuscripts from a folder I excavated from an old hard drive, when I don’t remember a routine protocol that should have been etched in my brain since my years in the university. I haul myself out of bed every morning, write garbage, dust off my brushes, and make blotches on the canvas, hoping they’ll morph into something discernible, even beautiful when they’re done. Every day, for nine hours, I read journal articles, learn online resources, ask a bunch of questions to people I’m intimidated by, and write about something I hope I understand sufficiently. I show up for work, all of them, even when I feel utterly unprepared, an amateur. There might never be enough time to learn everything, to make sure they’re perfect, but staying true to the essence of being an amateur, I carry on for love.