Every other week, a check would be deposited into my checking account, the amount would always be the same, and it was long ago that I stopped checking the number. I don't get to see the actual money a whole lot, for they are usually electronically sent out to places where services were rendered on my behalf. I do occasionally see them in physical form from my weekly $40 ATM withdrawal; but usually they are just some electronic number stored in a bank. It is a pity, I have always thought, that even though I worked hard for them for 40 hours a week, they provide no realization of anything tangible. Sure, they do their job just as well as real money, by keeping gasoline in my car and a roof over my head, but something seems missing. Instead of realizing dreams, the numbers are merely a tool of subsistence, of which the living had became tedious and dull. Yet day after day I perpetuate the daily going by furrowing brow at work and curse silently at disagreeable superiors. 8-5, 8-5, 8-5, 8-5, 8-5, fives times a week, the same s#$% would repeat itself, all under my watch.

Little consolation result from my attending graduate school. Graduate level courses demand a different set of ingenuity that my introverted personality so sorely lacks. Although first semester is coming to an end and I am in no danger of failing, instead of feeling triumphant or relief, a re-confirmation of my social-network ineptness is dragging my spirit down the sewage, swimming along with brown waters. I tried to compensate my social ineptness by studying hard for tests, but an B average student will always be an B average, as evidenced by my earning Bs in my first courses.

Well, life isn't so bad as I purport to be, like having lunch at that particular Chinese beef noodle place, of which none of my non-Taiwanese co-workers are willing to partake; or when in the afternoon a flock of certain colorful birds would form a choir and chirp for hours just outside of my big window at the office; or when I got to know a group of diverse and funny and smart people in classes, expanding my narrow universe just a bit wider. With Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go in hand, I chose a shady spot under a skinny maple tree and listened to the rustling tree. Soon the sound of a low flying airplane pressed upon my ears, reminding me that life is still worth living -- for now.

Tags: Trifle, Life, Never Let Me Go, Grad School,