the center cannot hold the path of least resistance

I’ve been looking at the world through an iphone-sized void, stuck in toddler-like reluctance at the idea that it all just continues. A monthly favorites haul neatly stacked before devastating war crimes in 4k. We clock into our respective mediums of acquiring provision, under incessant revelations of greed, power, cruelty.

I’ve written four new essays that so desperately want to see the light of your mobile reflected on your beautiful face but i just couldn’t. It all feels so self-aggrandizing. I parrot the truth “creating amidst unfathomable injustice is an act of resistance” and yet, fail to do so.

The pattern of my life laid out, watching momentum roll away in the parched desert of resistance. I gave into it, the resistance of not creating. Despair as procrastination or procrastination as despair. I justified it with stacks of to-do’s, and life’s ever piling mundanities, like the bottomless bowl of the dishwasher, my fine black hair in my shower sink, changing the light bulbs from overstimulating cool blue to a barely-there orange hue, and of course, calling my mother back.

The truth stares at you through the dimmed reflection of yourself on your screen, the center cannot hold the path of least resistance. Peeling tangerines for its sweet mist and failing to drink its juice.

I decided I’d go to Oxford.

Through the cobblestones’ varying heights, I stumbled right in front of the Radcliffe Camera. Amidst 13th century spires, sun soaked terraces filled with post-lecture gatherings over slow-poured Guinness, I laid open, at the mercy of my peers, in anxious expectation of criticism i willfully subjected myself to.

No amount of breath-work could have prepared me to read my writing in front of decorated scholars, best-selling authors, mycologists turned fantasy writers, and one impossibly pretentious man who refused to read the room every time he talked himself out of breath.

The room reeked of awe-inspired reverence every time the professor walked in, her editorial quick wit did not believe in flattery for ego’s sake. “Feedback is like a shit sandwich: find something that doesn’t suck, uncover the belly of the beast, and finish with the smallest hint of praise. Writers tend to have fragile egos.”

The execution was immediate. “I appreciate the use of clothing as character traits, but this lacks actual character development. I could, however, visualize the red blazer you mentioned five times.”

My code-switch had such an awful lag. I’d think of something to say the night before and just adjust it to the world someone built. This tends to happen when you’re taught to assimilate seamlessly and overcompensate with a bilingual brain working overtime. Surprise always follows when I finish speaking, “Oh, but you don’t even have an accent”, or a personal favorite, “no offense, but I was truly surprised by the caliber of your work”, as if this comment was an extension of her goodwill instead of a blanket statement of ignorance.

By my silence, and lack of floral flattery, I too would’ve asked why I was even there.

Oxford’s warmth slowly crept into that room with its gothic decorum and stained glass windows. Open notebooks on the mahogany table, the unabating desire for razor-sharp sentences, and the uncompromising unraveling of character.

I never once doubted the talent of the writers alongside me. I admired every comma, every pause. I annotated their masterful silver tongues and envied the ease with which they believed in their work. It never occurred to me that I, like them, was seated in that very same room.

The days morphed together, stretching themselves through fiction and relentless editing on a bench at Fellow’s Garden, or one of the twenty-six Bodleian libraries we were trying to check off our list. Whispered writing sprints inside the Radcliffe Camera followed by afternoon tea, and trying, to no avail, to split the G on our pints.

The final assignment entailed the first few chapters of a novel. The novels spanned from a children’s book about cats becoming human, an on the road-esque novel, spicy romance, Greek tragedies to self-proclaimed “high-fantasy”. Snippets of small worlds quietly being built.

The days before our reading were spent in feverish revision. On the day of, my hands were visibly nervous, rolling and unrolling dust bunnies in my pocket, clicking my pen in the search for some tactile stimulation. Rehearsing how I’d read my excerpt in a room full of expectant and brooding faces, each waiting for their peer’s verdict on their magnum opus.

My turn came around the table, and I cannot recall if I was too slow or too fast, but I was open to the idea of a gentle acceptance and a participation badge. To my surprise, I was met by discerning applause, keen interest and the quoting of my own sentences.

Final marks were given during a one-on-one conversation with the professor. Naturally, this meant there was sulking around every corner, rumors and confirmations about who got distinctions followed by ecstatic dancing or humble nods.

I wasn’t able to do much before mine, so I laid in the garden counting magpies and promising myself I’d continue to write regardless of the professor’s validation or probable lack thereof.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed a few comments about my marks,” she mumbled with a red pen in mouth. “Well, yes. They’re mostly true. I believe it would be a disservice to hand out unearned praise. You must understand that, right?”

I nodded, in the hopes my silence would speed up the conversation so I could thank her for her time and absorb the imminent blow from the comfort of my bed.

“That’s why I need you to understand that this mark means something. I do not give distinctions lightly, in fact, quite rarely do so.”