No, you can't make me turn away. This period of silence is due to be over. And you can't convince me this is not my language. Although it is not the language of my soul, it is the language of my creative expression, and I'm hurting for that outlet these days. I'm amazed at the words that come spilling out when people talk, phrase after unbroken phrase, like it's breathing air. Words are another form of capital in this world. Saying the right thing can be worth millions. Me? I think I'm simply afraid of saying the wrong thing, and the result of my indecision is silence.

But it's about time I learned something I already know. People assert themselves into this world and must feel they have some power to define it. To possess the world we must understand it, not for what it is, but for the meaning our limited comprehension may find in it. An assertion is a decision, firm and without regret, a bold strike into the unknown that we must make if we are to declare independence from the somnambulance of fate. Every decision reflects a decision we've made about ourselves, reflects the current version of our identity we are invested in. Given that the perfect decision is only an ideal, the lesson learned can only be applied the next time around, we are caught in the space of potential perfection, always able to do better, never reaching the climax of performance. This is the plight of the assertive human, prone to error and criticisms, yet dogged in the will to illumine his surroundings in a light of credibility. I want to believe, he intones, and crafts a system of fulfilled expectations.

Am I an imposter? Have I, in the paucity of my own creativity, assumed an identity which belies the simplicity or dissatisfaction of my inner self? I feel smothered by my own actions and despise my distracted slothfulness, and wonder whether there is something more to the graying of my mind. I am learning more slowly these days, I am becoming suspicious of the way my attentions flutter and dance in solar winds, alighting here and gone without a trace -- what is it that you said? -- how I forget and how I do not listen. Why am I so easily confused? My tired eyes don't ask the question, and beg me to lay down and rest. My eyes have always been the key to my fire. In Beijing Opera the eyes express the vitality of the actors, they are flung wide as the music comes to its predictable pause, the intensity of the stare setting the rich mascara in a passionate flame. I have in the past looked at myself in the eye. This by itself is quite the technical achievement, as the image which appraised me in turn always used to seem fuzzy, ephemeral and distant, without my glasses. After being introduced to contact lenses, I turned to face the mirror and gave myself the old once-over. My god. This is me, as earth would have made me, without that imperfection borne of books and TV. I stared at this boy who shifted his eyes, looked deep to see the fire burning deep inside, the will, the virtue, the youth. But I could not see too deeply, for some reason. I imagine smoldering embers casting a sunset orange skin inside, and yearn to stoke those dull logs, turn them over, roast the soft undersides of the tender new wood. Take me and throw me into the wind, I need to learn to fly.

I am endowed and cursed with the penchant of second-guessing people while pretending I own no preconceptions and judge each man according to his merits. This is a disgusting trait which appalls me every time I realize that again, I have passed judgement over a stranger without first letting him into my world, and I wonder how people don't simply see through my hypocrisy. I have a will to be better, but so far my will has not come to fruition. I am left with uncertainty and hatred. Interaction begins with eye contact. I recall very clearly the strength and clarity of that unwavering gaze of my youth. A touch of haughtiness marred my otherwise heroic will to look everyone in the eye, stranger or not, classmate or passerby. If I didn't have faith in man, at least I had faith in the power of my own will to bring others to the light, to the recognition that we are an ignored people, and that the uncomfortable closeness of a few seconds of eye contact is actually all the blood and sweat needed to bridge the space between two hearts. I've long lost that will, although I still hope that it will come back to me in a period of rebirth and inspiration. Now my eyes shift quickly to my surroundings as I, the lonely savior, admit defeat and stumble along in the ranks of the ignored. This is just another sign of my prejudice again the stranger. I want to embrace my neighbor and kiss him on the cheek. Instead, I watch his actions, quick to pick out his faults, which fly together and become one unfair impression which stamps itself firmly on my memory.

Beauty, too, seems too bright or dirty for my eyes. I am convinced that the superficial arrogance of the beautiful, whether this arrogance exists or not, belies insecurities deep within. I associate beauty with rejection, a rejection of myself, which I preempt through a rejection of my own, of the other. I do not know how much satisfaction I get out of so childishly playing my strategic trump card, but I am certainly prevented from drawing close to a good number of beautiful people, who probably would not accept me anyways. And so I fool myself. I look away, I scurry past afraid that a gesture may invite interaction, which would pounce upon me, claws extended, and tear my insular, intensely lonely room into shreds. Folks, it's only made out of cloth, it rips easily. But I hide inside an zip the door shut. I think I'm transparent.