A Vignette

In middle school, I often found it difficult to fall asleep. Every day at around ten o’clock, I would close my eyes, relax my body, and wait for my mind to knock itself out. But sometimes, that just didn’t happen. Ten minutes would pass by, then another ten, then another ten, then maybe an hour or two. And at one o’clock in the morning, I would still be lying there as motionless as the night, wondering when my brain would finally transition to sleep mode.

On some nights, I would get impatient, and every five minutes or so, I’d check the clock. The numbers on the digital display glowed green in my face, and the colon in-between the hours and the minutes would blink on and off. In a room that was perfectly silent, I thought that I could hear a faint clicking sound every time those two dots disappeared and then reappeared on the clock face. But looking back, I realize that I had probably just imagined it.

I also did a lot of thinking during those long nights. I remember asking myself what I wanted to do in life, or more specifically, whether or not I wanted to do anything other than grow up, make a considerable amount of money, have a nice family, and then die. I assumed that this process would grant me a happy, fulfilling life, but at the same time, it seemed so short—almost like a set of instructions found on the side of a hot pockets box. I imagined coming into this world with a note attached to my diaper that read, “Enjoy your hot pocket in five easy steps! Step one: remove plastic packaging. Step two: place hot pocket on crisping sleeve. Step three: Microwave on high for two minutes. Step four: allow hot pocket to cool. Step five: eat your hot pocket.”

And usually, those contemplative sessions never produced anything conclusive. But that night, after hours of thought, I made a decision—and that decision was to not live my life like a cheesy pastry filled with assorted meats.