Belated Impression: Thoughts on First Co-op
It eventually occurs to me the importance of retuning to English writing, after a long year of being occupied by endless quizzes, exams, to say, those academic burdens to which I always pay a huge attention. It is not entirely due to my unwillingness, though sometimes I do admit. I find it quite difficult that time could be sufficiently saved for pondering and literary creation. Of course, there are several moments that impressed me, even touching me deeply, but quickly drifting away from my mind. The picture is presented well: it has clear shape, full of contents, vivid and bright, but often impeded by my “inarticulation.”
Why I choose to escape from English creation? I should at first ask myself before thinking of a reply to my beloved readers. I know they have followed and encouraged me for several years. Mother language must be a shortcut, a shortcut with full joviality. Its nature is attracting and closest to my reflective feelings. Like a person whom despite incapable of expression I can freely talk to.
I probably have not realised the playful hostility until weariness overpowers me. What I am trying to display is any possible hint of hostility in return: I should have stopped Chinese writing earlier, not entirely eradicating though. Instead, fully assimilating myself into English, which, not very soon, will be my next hatred.
The scattered and disorganised words above I have noted down on the train to Toronto for my very first internship. That was a typical sullen day, intermittently drizzling till sundown. Piercingly cold too.
As you might imagine and I have pictured many times, I have no clue what the future holds for me. The fact that train is moving so fast to destination worsens my anxiety. Merely I know, being endlessly nervous has no help. However, I cannot suppress that feeling, being up-and-down, unbearable. Deadly insufferable. Looking out of the window will not bring me back to where I used to live, that personal and tiny comfort zone.
To my surprise, I was never being so frail in my whole life, wincing before an opportunity that my peers admire and look forward to, which paradoxically I found a source of depression. I used to try very hard to get what the best outcome could be. The moment I harvest it and instantly enjoy the felicity it brings, every exertion seems paid-off. What if I really touch upon it? There is no real happiness that is purely itself, without concern interwoven.
Anyway, the first day goes not too unexpected. As usual procedure, I am led by my mentor to register access card, who, few-years older, highly compliments my dressing in formality when we meet. But nonetheless, nothing really special is with my suit. She then gives me a simple tour of the entire office, which locates in the middle of downtown, a confluence of noise of all the different kinds.
The honk, mixed with wintry gust, and the rambunctious pedestrians, who sweep with slight sound of collision. A prosperous and dynamic image.
I guess the level of excitement in me is even higher than other peers, the majority of who so far have certain knowledge of how work is supposed to be. There is something wanting in me, a state of composure, which everyone intentionally tries to display. In contrast, the lack of imperturbability shames me, for which, soon I find, I could be seemingly excused if I keep humble and willing to learn. I could not count how many questions are truly worth being asked, or that seem not clumsy, on the first week, where all of us internship students are sat in bunch of training sessions.
Oftentimes a thought has been easily formed, either confusion or concurrence, and when it comes to the tip of tongue, it is not easy to mouth into words. As if verbal expression is the hardest. Also difficult to be shackled from is my timidity. The inner part of me can easily perceive the arrogance that keeps itself driven, but at the same time breaking personal inhibitions into insignificant pieces.
Which is the moment I learn to perform self-denial, not to the full extent, but strenuously essential.
“Why do you wear that formal each day?” says my mentor. “You don’t have to” she laughs with no reserve, when we both happen to sit close in office, during the first week. “Oh, Do I?” I do mention that this might be because of my peculiar and unchanging habits in dressing. But seldom could I get the chance to wipe the dust that has settled over them, for a whole year, without noticing their sunning til now.
And wearing suit presents me a necessity — — of mutual respect — — and a solemnity in self-recognition.
More likely is the scent of it, like camphor, cosy and sweet, sweet and forlorn, a smell of memory.
I feel compelled to say that each week the most pleasant time is for coming home. As if my life has been lived against a backdrop of “home”, a harbour of curing pain and mishap, without my ever understanding that no home actually exists. It coexists with invisibility somehow. While corporeal fatigue might fade away, home brings no warmth if our spirituality is sort of a drifter. In reality, it is the familiarity with the surroundings that deepens our attachment to each occurrence, which constantly refers to people round us. However, every argument presented is based upon our expectations, or hope, or ideally imagining. What if our expectations were not met? What if those we try to render ourselves pleasing are just momentary, or never worth for pursuing. Nor are the worldly words from those worldly friends better-deserving. So a sorrow comes, a gentle sorrow, but makes our heart quickly hardened.
In return, we rationally embrace, then ignore it staunchly.
It at least dawns on me that there will be no need to keep on hoping. Even not a single word from them. Not hoping as people who know better hope for underserved blessings, spontaneous amity, things of that sort.
