"Every day we have to live for the desires of our parents, our teachers, our lovers, and our friends. In order to satisfy the desires of others, you must first find out what your own desires are. We cannot allow the desires of others to control us forever if we want our weakened ego to survive and grow." — anonymous
I used to draw a lot when I was younger. I liked to look at the sky. The clouds. The birds. The rosy coral washed sunsets— I wished to capture those moments forever.
That was impossible.
Back then, I did not have paper to draw with, nor brushes or paint or crayons. How could I have ever dreamed of adding color to a life that had been filled with the pain of there never being enough food on the dinner table and there never being enough time in other's lives for me to be relevant? I only had a pencil— so I took to sketching people.
I observed them everyday, sitting on the broken steps of my father's house, the muffled sound of shouting inside. An old wooden cart being pushed by a man who seemed like he didn't have much time left. People in rags, their clothing torn and ragged with age.
I would draw them all. After all, we were all the same.
We were poor.
Someone who I sketched regularly was an old lady who would sell apples on the street. Her hoarse voice would say, "Five apples for ten yuan! A discount of twenty percent!"
I would use some of the money we had to buy the apples that would supply us for a week. Her small beady eyes would smile back at me, "I'll give you some extra ones for free."
I would reply, "You need the money too." But I would still take the extra ones— because we still needed to survive.
She grinned, her toothless gums showing. "Take care of yourself and tell your older brother to come visit too next time."
Maybe it was the wrinkled knots of her bony hands. Or her wobbly knees aged with the thousands of steps everyday. Or maybe it was because she seemed like a real person. Someone who could understand me, and listen. It could be that I liked drawing because I wanted people like her to be remembered. To know that at least someone in the world cared that they were alive. So that someone knew that I was alive.
I would show my drawings to my older brother when my father wasn't looking and he would say, "ā jun, you're amazing." He would pick me up by the waist and spin me around, his smile brighter than anything in the world. He would then say, "I'll always be by your side."
But that was in the past. I don't draw anymore. I haven't in eight years. Not since the day my father had reminded me of my obligations to the family.
"You could be making money so that we don't have to live like this anymore!' He shouted this at me every time he caught me drawing. "This is a waste. I will not tolerate it from my sons."
I wanted to fight with him. I wanted to take control of my own life, my own desires. Not his. Not anyone's.
But no one fights with my father— and no one ever will. He stared at me through bloodshot eyes. Looking back on it now, can I really say that my father was alive then? He was into his late thirties at the time. Yet each time I looked at him, I trembled with terror and fear, a reflex that had been burned into me from the first moment I was born. The drawing books, the pencils, they were burned and forgotten. My desires— were burned and forgotten.
I shook my head and released myself from the memories. I stepped onto my doorstep after the long walk from the hospital and braced myself for an evening at home.
"I brought some instant noodles for you, dad," I called as I stumbled through the door after visiting the hospital. Sighing, I sat down on the floor, placing the plastic bag on the table. "Dad?"
A silence followed.
I guessed he hadn't come home yet. It was fine. He was probably sleeping somewhere on the streets like an old man about to die.
Die. I repeated to myself. The memories of the girl from last night flooded back.
Die. The girl at the hospital was about to die.
Did she really say that she was about to die— or was I confusing my own desire to die with hers?
I ripped the silvery grey cover off my instant noodles, pouring hot water into the cup. I should forget her, I thought to myself. Why should I even remember her? Stirring the noodles together, I shoved them into my mouth.
But I couldn't forget her. She reminded me of the woman who sold apples. Because she was real. She didn't condescend to me. She didn't hold back. She didn't pity me.
The irony of the whole situation made me laugh. Me, a guy who wants to die, but has to live. And a girl who wants to live, but is going to die.
All of a sudden, I remembered my drawings. If I draw someone, and they die, will they still be alive? Will they still be remembered?
I sat on the floor, my hands on my knees.
I looked around the house for a shadow of my father. He definitely was not there.
I looked at the lone pencil that stood on his desk.
I took it out— and began drawing.
Rough charcoal on smooth paper. Angular shapes and a coarse outline. Long hair spilling onto the shoulders, silvery in the moonlight. Misty eyes on a sullen yet alluring face. Was she sad? Was she smiling? I drew—
The second layer. Dark shadows highlighting the paleness of her skin. Small blemishes on her face. I wanted to draw her the way she was. Not overly beautiful— but in her own way, without makeup, just her. A person— a real person.
I left the lines soft. Blurred. She seemed like a ghost, or an angel.
I could not draw her in a way that seemed human, yet. I didn't even know her name. Her age. What does she like? What does she want? What does she desire? It was only until I truly understood someone, that I would be able to draw them— alive. And as a person.