Stability

                                                                                                    1
         Don’t ask me what I am about. If anyone asked me to tell the hollow story of my life as if it were something complete, I would choose to remain silent. To be honest, I think that all of our lives are hollow. We only get to know pieces of people. We only get to know fragments of the truth.  We borrow dreams and bury ourselves with them.
         That’s not how I’ll start.
         At night, when the house is empty and my mind is calm enough to wander, I like to walk from room to room. I like to listen to the rhythm of my footsteps as I admire the beauty and symmetry of every floor, ceiling, and doorway. I imagine I drew out every detail of this house and built it from the ground up. Beauty is a solid foundation. Beauty is a standing structure. Beauty is stability.
         I am not an architect. I am not an engineer. Don’t ask me who I am.
         If this house were alive, it would be wiser than anyone who ever lived inside it. It would listen to our dreams and secrets and laugh sympathetically. It would say, “You have it wrong. Don’t build your life around passionate love or passionate dreams because those things are fires that die. Build your life on solid earth and appreciate the stability.”

         Don’t ask me what I love.  Don’t ask me what I dream.  I love things that are greater than people, and I dream dreams that nourish, rather than drain, the life in me.
         But because it doesn’t speak, I have taken it upon myself to learn the stories of those who lived here before me. I tried to piece stories together, from neighbors and acquaintances, and draw the lines back as far as possible.  My success was limited. I only learned about two families.
         One was a family of one, a lonely man whom everyone liked but whom no one knew. He was pleasant and honest, but there was something empty about him. There had to be a story, but no one cared enough to ask. He just kind of went out and I took his place.

         This story is not about me.  This is story is not about him.  But I wish I could have known him.
         And then, before him, there was a family of five: A daughter, two sons, two parents. The children all left home and moved on. But the parents? They just disappeared one day and a “For Sale” sign showed up. Maybe there was a business opportunity somewhere else, or maybe the payments were too much, or maybe they found somewhere better.
         Maybe they felt they just had to get away.
         They all got away from this house and I may never know why. I’ve redone the garden and changed the sinks and replaced the lights, but I still get the haunting feeling that they all looked at this house, thought about their lives, and knew that they just had to go.
                                                                                                  2
         It was a calm night—the kind of calm where silence could take hold and thoughts could venture out.  The house was empty and the street was quiet.  Aiden, second child of three, was alone at his home a generation and a half ago.  He was not a picturesque youth—his body was scrawny and his face was imperfect.  His ears stuck out.  His skin was a strange color. 
         He knew all of these things and remembered them as he looked into the gold-framed mirror that hung by the fireplace.  Like any teenager, he knew his flaws better than anyone.  But if he stared for just long enough and with the right amount of focus, he could see a different face.  And then he could look into the eyes of someone else, an understanding someone, and that person could show him the way forward.
         He stared for a long time.  The dining room clock must have ticked a hundred times.  But he must have seen something, because he finally opened his mouth to speak.
         “Aiden,” he said, “You're doing fine.  Don't worry about anything.  We'll get through everything together.”
         He was silent again for a long time, then turned away and began walking around the house.  He walked to the dining room and flipped on the lights.  He walked to the hallway and flipped on the lights.  He walked to his own room and flipped on the lights. 
         Then he stared into the mirror again.

         His sister caught the 8:30 train going outbound.  Her tall, slender body slouched slightly as she relaxed in her seat and looked out the window.  Her black hair was contained neatly in a ponytail.  She wore ordinary jeans and ordinary sneakers, but her shirt had a beautiful design that consisted mainly of red.
         She was beautiful, and those who watched her could observe a certain glow.  No one could say what made her so beautiful.  She sort of looked like a typical, female, Asian teenager one could find at a mall or a coffee shop.  Maybe it was her eyes that made her special, eyes that seemed to shine.  Her face spelled out every expression letter by letter, and at the moment she was deep in thought.
         It had been a great day, a day of laughter and celebration.  Memories like these would last long after she left this city.  So why was it that whenever she boarded a train, she replayed memories she didn’t like and thought of things that she didn’t want to think about?
         She just wanted to be free—to run, to fly, to move unhindered without the weight of anything.  She wanted to disappear into a place she could really call home.  She wanted to feel the earth, breathe the air, and really, truly feel that she had found a place where she could live.
         And yet, with the dream so close, something haunted her.  Maybe it was this train, with its loud movement and scheduled timing, that made her shudder.  Maybe it was the people who boarded the train every day, their faces expressionless and their eyes staring into nothing.  Or maybe it was this train’s view of the city:  She saw a beautiful sky and tall buildings, but everyone who inhabited it looked trapped...

         In a year he would be free, but Aiden no longer believed in freedom.  His thoughts on the future seemed to circle around like a ship circles a whirlpool.  What was really out there for him?  A stable job?  The spreading of a seed? 
         But if he were anyone else, things would be easier.  He turned out every light in the house, one by one.  Little bits of moonlight remained, giving the house a kind of dim life.  He walked and faced the mirror again, which showed only his most basic features.  He closed his eyes again, and pretended...
         His thoughts broke like a glass hitting the ground.  Someone was walking toward the front door.  He could hear the sound of footsteps.  He could hear the sound of keys.
         No, this couldn’t be.  He wasn’t ready for this.  He was coming home.  Not him.  Anyone but him.
         Him.  The one who made every simple action seem like the greatest mistake ever made. 
         He breathed and went through his routine.  He gave me everything, taught me everything, let me succeed, and I owe him everything. 
         I will accept whatever he tells me.
         The only dream I have is the dream he gave me.   
         Okay.  Calm.  Composed.  He could do this. 
     
         “Hey, it’s only me,” said his sister.
         He breathed a sigh of relief.  “Welcome home,” he said.
                                                                                              3
         Before we continue, a digression.
         Love is something I could never get my head around.  Love has many forms but seems to contradict its own purpose.
         First, there’s love between lovers.  Two people (rarely more), for reasons not specified, agree to an informal contract that can be ripped up by either person for any reason at any time.  Seems fair, one may think, but the line between love and hate is so easily blurred that few lovers end up achieving anything.  What starts as purity is almost immediately corrupted by lust, hatred, jealousy, and The Wall.  Relationships often end on a bad note and with a renewed sense of bitterness.
         Yet love between parent and child is everything relationships should be—lasting, meaningful, and unconditional.  Love in this form suddenly finds stability.
         Love between siblings is anyone’s guess.  If they dislike each other, then I imagine the dislike is amplified by all the time they have to spend together.  But if they truly understand and respect each other, then I imagine they must share a bond that cannot be broken by distance or time.
         
         Aiden’s sister arrived carrying a stuffed grocery bag.  Aiden cleared the table, allowing her to take out her goods:  Packaged salad…raw steak…ice cream…and two bottles of vodka.  These were Aiden’s favorites, not hers.  Aiden, who previously looked like he was in low spirits, seemed to brighten.
         “Dinner for two,” said Aiden, trying to sound cheerful. “You’re so thoughtful.”
         “I couldn’t imagine a better way to spend tonight,” she replied.  “This dinner table is always so full of tension—it always feels like a war zone.  But they’re out tonight.”
         She put the ice cream in their freezer as Aiden warmed up the stove.  He began to let the steak cook.
         “How are you?” he asked.  “How was the party?”
         “Great!” she said, flipping on a light switch to make the kitchen brighter.  “Everyone is great.”
         There was a slight pause.  How could he respond to that?
         “What did you do today?  Did you go to the mall?”
         “I can’t stand malls.”  His voice was flat.  “There’s too much love in the air.”
         “Did you go anywhere with friends?”
            “I didn’t feel like doing anything like that today.”
         She stopped to think for a moment, then walked outside to the living room.  She turned on the stereo player and the house was flooded with music.
            “I didn’t want you to cook in silence,” she called.
            They had both loved this song, and nothing brought him back like this song did.  He knew it word for word…perhaps he knew it note for note.  He had loved it and built his life around it until recent years, when it no longer seemed to match his dreams and his aim.  This song…
            …this song was about running away and leaving everything behind.

         The food was made, the table was set, and the two were hungry and ready.  But the music was off and the house felt empty, as if the music were the only thing keeping the scene in color.  The grey leaked through every window but could not penetrate the kitchen lights. 
            “We’re both 17, going on 18,” he said.
            “Yes,” she replied.  “Where has the time gone?”
            He hesitated.  “So where did you get the vodka?”
            She closed her eyes as if trying to avoid the question.  She was preparing to say something.
            “You know,” she said, “I get restless sometimes.  I know I’ll be an adult soon, which is why I want to feel like an adult who can make decisions and can drink vodka.  But I still feel like nothing has changed.  Sometimes I stay up late at night and can’t sleep.  Sometimes I think of you, and me, and…our parents.  I walk out of the house and look at the stars, then back at the house, then back at the stars.  And I think to myself:  Even after I leave this house I won’t be free.”
            “Why not?”
            Her voice rose.  “Because after all this time, they still insist on controlling me.  I can’t be free until I'm allowed to do what I want to do.”
            There was a pause.  “And what do you want to do?”
            “I don’t know, I just…I want to do something that’s me.  I want to be something other than a doctor or an engineer or a chief scientist.”
            For a while, neither one spoke.  They ate silently, lost in two separate trains of thought.  Then, to break the tension, Aiden opened his bottle of vodka.  She opened hers and they poured their drinks. They clinked glasses without saying a word.
            “What do you want to do?” he asked.
            “I was thinking…art school.”
            “Art school?”  His voice was slightly sarcastic.  “Why art school, of all things?”
            “I don't know...I like to draw.  And what is it you want to do?”  Her tone was slightly defensive.
            “I was thinking a doctor, or an engineer, or…what was that third thing you said?”
            They both laughed and the tension seemed to subside.  They ate more easily now and conversed about things that were not so memorable.  She talked about music.  He talked about school.  They talked about people they knew and events that had passed and ideas they had, but after more time and more food and more vodka, the conversation circled right back to the uncertain future.
            “Do you think they’ll let you be an artist?” he blurted.
            “No,” she said. “Never.”
            “Then what’s your plan?”
            “Oh, I don’t know.”
            The conversation circled around again, through music and school and people.  It lingered on events, skipped ideas, but did not come full circle.
            And so they finished their meal with ease, continuing to converse while consciously stepping over the unspoken question that threatened to ruin the night.
           
         But when the meal was over, they sunk back into their own confused thoughts.
                                                                                          4
         I find it haunting that memories fade so easily.  Imagine memories of earlier in the day:  Everything is clear, like the look of sky or the feel of grass.  You can take a picture of the grass or write about the sky, but it's not the same as the memory.  From this point on, the memory fades until everything but the thought is gone.          
         And so we lose that indescribable touch.  We forget what a single day or moment meant to us and we fall right back into our routine.  It's like there's no progression—we just move in circles.

         Aiden woke up at 5 AM, his thoughts renewed by the night’s endless dreaming.  His sister loved the night and Aiden chose to sleep most nights off:  He preferred to dream while asleep.
            But Aiden ruled the mornings.  He always beat the sun by a few hours, cleaned the house or worked at his study until the light poured in, then walked the streets to see the sunrise.  As the city slept, Aiden embraced the day. 
            Oh, how he hated the morning bus.  How he hated hearing the bus fare clink, the bus tires roll, the automated voice that proclaimed the time and location and the time and location.  These faces belonged to people he saw everyday, but he never bothered to talk to them…no matter, for they never bothered to talk to him.
            Every day he just ran through the motions.  Morning bell…class, passing period, class, passing period, class…come home, work, sleep, wake, morning bus, morning bell.  Going through the motions.  Going through the motions, until…
            Going through the motions until something broke the circle.
            “Aiden, Rose looked a little depressed today.  Do you know what’s wrong?”
            Rose...was that her name?  She kept asking to be called something else.  She didn't want to be called by the name her parents gave her.  This was just one of the strange things that defined her.
            “I think she’s all right.”

            And day by day, week by week, Aiden just kept going though the motions.  Morning bus, morning bell, work, sleep, morning bus, morning bell, work….sleep….
            Sleep…
            In the quiet of the night his sister prepared for her departure.  Money she had worked for and saved, the jewelry her late grandmother had given her, a picture of their family when they were still a complete, 5-person family…she thought that packing would be a little harder, but everything fit neatly into one bag.
            Morning bus, morning bell, work, sleep…

            There were dozens of people surrounding him at the quad, casually eating, but only Darren was sitting right next to him.  Darren was a slightly thin, slightly pale guy whose slightly elegant, athletic build made him look like a tennis player.
         “Aiden,” he said, “You haven't been listening to me at all.  You've just been staring at the girl in blue.  Do you like her?”
            “Yes.  Very much.”
            “Have you done anything about it yet?”
            “Oh, of course not.  I’ve barely even talked to her.”
            “Nervous?”
            “Not really.  I just think things are perfect right now.  If I get to know her better, I'll find something I don't like.”
            Darren looked disinterested.  “Over-thinking, as always.  Here, take some advice:  If you like someone, ask them out.  Right off the bat.”
            “But what then?”
            “You mean how to control them?  It’s simple:  Use endless flattery.  Worship her.  If she believes it, she’ll eat it up and forever rely on you for self-confidence.  At that point, she’s yours and you control her.”
            Why he remembered this conversation so well, he had no idea.  At the moment, Aiden was sickened by the idea.
          But secretly, he wished he could have done half the things Darren had tried. 

            This school has 1600 people, 1600 faces that Aiden was acquainted with.  Walking among them took a strain on him…there were just too many people and there was just too much of something.  He had known most of these people for years…but how much did he really know?  Did he really, truly know any one person?  Somehow, he felt more alone among 1600 people than he did when he was by myself.
            1600 people.  He wanted to get outside now and then, be a different person and meet people that way.
            Then he realized that he wouldn’t be at this school for much longer. 
            And so, day by day, week by week, Aiden broke the circle by trying to have one meaningful conversation a day—one where he learned something new.  After all, he would have to say goodbye soon.  He might as well say goodbye to friends he knew well.
            Work, conversation, work, conversation...dinner with friends, movies with friends...the monotony was broken.
           
            But even now, after months…his sister was still preparing for her departure.
                                                                                              5
         Sometimes I just get so sick of people.  We're secretive.  We're deceptive.  We're self-important.  We rationalize everything.
         And we're all alone in our minds.  So is it such a crime to live in another world?  We have computers and TVs and a thousand things to do and not do.  With the touch of a button, we transport ourselves to a place where things work out better than they do in reality.  I think we all live in another world.
         Is there anyone out there who can disprove my claim?  Is there anyone out there who lives?

            Aiden stared at the night sky and wished the dawn would never come to confirm his reality.  Here, in his own world, the curtain rose and revealed a lighted stage.  There was no need for anything but his own play. 
            And yet…what to fill it, but memories?  Vivid memories filled with color.  Memories of whole days and sequences.  Memories, perfect memories, to bury one haunting memory.
            But the daylight brought an end to this.  The daylight shattered his world like glass.
            Maybe it wasn’t perfect that day.  Maybe the sun was too bright.  Maybe the water was too cold.  But the memory was perfect—sunny and endless and happy and perfect.  They were a family on some city on the last vacation the “family” ever took.  He and his sister, without a care in the world, played on the beach.  They collected sand dollars and ran from the tide.  They talked about…something.  It didn’t matter.  There was nothing but beauty and nothing mattered.
            Intermission.
            Curtain rises.  Narrator, in words that are both real and eloquent, beautifully sets a context without sounding artificial.  It’s Winter.  Parents are home.  Sister is home.  Brother, with a pained look in his eyes, sits off in another room. 
            It was out of the blue, but…in a way that’s not out of the blue and not sudden, she tells him everything.  She tells him that she didn't follow instructions—she has rebelled.  She’s going to an art school, and that much is certain.  And she never bothered to tell anyone before.
            But her words are beautiful, somehow.  Full of meaning and beautiful in spite of the mistakes she reveals.  The words almost redeem her.             
            She says that she’s going to tell them now.  She tells him that if they don’t let her go, she will go.  In some way, with some words, she makes it all sound justified.
            Him and his thoughts.  Him on center stage without speaking.  He hears speaking.  He hears shouting and the shattering of plates.  Some dialogue.  Some speaking.  More shouting.  But nothing audible but a word.  A word.
            And he looks off, as if trying to imagine some other world.

            Now they’re together.  She says that she loves him but he has to go.  He tells her, in words that are sad but meaningful, something of a speech.  A perfect speech…
            But she leaves anyway.  And the parents, proud and unwavering and 2-dimensional, simply say nothing.
            And maybe it’s a movie now.  Maybe the music comes to a climax.  Maybe she goes away, tracking shot, away from everything.  There’s something that seems to haunt her and chase her down, but the music overcomes that force.  No one in the audience knows where she’s going, but for a second they feel like they know what she’s running from. 
            She had been running her entire life.  Running from time.  Running from this.  Running farther and farther away from Aiden.
            What use are words?
            Words couldn’t make their parents understood.
            Words couldn’t make things right.
            Words, past, present, future…
            …Words could never make her stay.
            Somewhere, in some other city, there was no need for departure.
            Together, a family.  Accepting, loving parents and children who were free.
            They would see each other again, someday, in another place.  They would embrace and understand their lives and look with happiness toward the future, toward the past, and toward the present.
            Somewhere.  Not here, but somewhere.
            In some other life.  One day…
           
            …they would meet each other again in a bright place under some other sky.
                                                                                                6
         If there’s any one discovery I made in my lifetime, it’s this:  No one is truly happy.  Maybe there was a time when people were happy, but that time has passed.  The poor don’t have enough, so they’re not happy.  The rich have more than they ever had before, but they’re not happy.  Those with power aren’t happy.  Those without any power aren’t happy.  The geniuses aren’t happy.  The ignorant aren’t happy.
            And that’s the reason for all of this—that’s the reason for cinema, and TV, and the internet, and dreams of escapes.  The light has gone out, but maybe the hero on the big screen can be happy.  Maybe the people we pretend to be can be happy.
            So it's good and right and perfect to just run away from everything.

            When they went out for lunch, they usually liked to do so in groups—merge the conversations into one.  Aiden rarely did these things one-on-one, so there must have been something that had to be discussed.  Now, here they were:  Aiden’s coffee and sandwich to match Darren’s soda and burger.
            “You know,” said Darren as he ate, “I’m not ready for college.”
            Aiden took a sip of coffee.  “Really?  I always assumed you were the one who had a plan.  You know, the one who had it figured out.”
            Darren sighed.  “I wish I were.  To be honest, I wish I could stay another year.”
            Aiden looked down at his plate.  “Really?  I can’t wait to get away from here.”
            Aiden stopped.  For a little while, nothing was said.
            “I’m sorry,” said Darren, “Did I remind you of your sister?”
            “Yeah,” said Aiden softly, “A little bit.”
            “Then we’ll finish this discussion another day, when you’re ready.  Don’t worry.”

            A storm rolled in and it rained all night.  Aiden tried to get some sleep, but he kept thinking about the rain and his house.  What if the roof caved in?  What if lightning struck and the house caught fire?  In a year Aiden would be gone but the house would stand like it always had.
            The next day the rain continued, so his team ran in the rain.  Aiden and Darren took the lead.  They tried to pass each other a few times, then decided to run as a unit.  They relaxed into a slightly less competitive pace. 
            Aiden started to struggle on the last mile.
            “I’m cramping up,” he said between breaths, “I need motivation.  Give me the speech.”
            “Aiden, you can’t do this.”
            “Lower.  Make your voice lower.”
            “Aiden, you’re going to fail.”
            “Too low.”
            “Aiden, no matter how hard you try, you’ll never succeed.”
            “Perfect.”
            Aiden, mentally recovered, broke into a sprint.  Darren followed his example and the two ran as fast as they could.  Trees rushed past and the rain was drowned out by the sound of footsteps.  They made it to the marker at the exact same time.
            They stood, exhausted, and breathed.  Aiden tried not to collapse.
            “Nice work,” said Darren.
           
            Afterwards, they took a bus home.  Aiden stared at the window, then turned to Darren.
            “I’m ready to talk about my sister,” he said.  And he told him more about her unexpected departure.
            “Do you have any idea where she is now?”
            “No.  She hasn’t returned any of my calls.”
            Darren kept asking questions and tried to figure out a way to contact her, but he didn’t get far.  She was simply out of touch.
            “Here comes our stop,” said Darren.  They stepped out into the rain and took shelter under a tree.
            “So how do you feel about this?”
            “Angry, I guess.  Angry at her choice.”
            “Wasn’t much of a choice, if you ask me.  Leave or stay…If she stayed she might have spent her whole life in their control, wondering what freedom meant.
            Aiden thought for a minute.  “But that’s the thing I keep thinking about.  What makes her so sure she’ll find freedom and happiness?”
            “Maybe she already has.”
            There was a long moment of silence before Darren spoke again.
            “Look, this is the way I see it.  Nowadays, there are only two paths:  You can do something marketable and opt for financial stability—become an engineer, or a doctor, or a lawyer—or you can take a chance.  And anyone who has the courage to take a chance deserves some respect.”
            “So where should I try to fit in?”
            “You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”

            It rained for another day and all Aiden thought about were Darren’s words.  Did he know what he was doing?  Did Aiden have a plan?  He chose to take the provided path and he chose to stay on it.  This was his world and he knew his world well.  It just…it was the only world he knew and it was his.  But it was never hers.
            He thought back to a day he spent with eight of his best friends.  Between small talk, they talked about uncertainty and college acceptances and college rejection and questioned where they would all be in ten years.             
            Where would they be?
            The rain came down and Aiden thought about this.  He laid on his bed and looked up and thought and thought, but the thoughts went no where.
            When he woke some hours had passed.  It was dark outside but the rain had stopped.
            He threw on a coat and walked out to look at the sky.  The storm was over and the light was breaking.
            Something in the sky spoke to him and a new thought took hold.  This was his life.  His life.  He would find his way and find himself.  This was his life.
           Maybe nothing changed in the moment, but it felt like a revelation brought on simply by the observation that rain had ended.
            The ground was still wet and the air was still cool but the light kept breaking and the world came to life.  The sun would set again but it didn’t matter.  A new day.  For once it mattered that this was a new day.
            Now he wanted to scream it out for all the world to hear.  A new day, and his life.
            So he walked out and let the light spread.  He let go of the thought of his own weight and broke into a run.
            A new day.  A new chance.
            A new beginning.