essays

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essays ,

My curiosity can’t be contained.

It starts with a concept, whether it be the psychology of gambling or the etymology of the word “oxymoron.” And then it grows, forming a spider web off the core. Soon, intricate threads of intrigue are woven into clarity.

My love of knowledge is the driving force behind my curiosity. I am interested in how the brain works, for example. I notice that this is something that I have always been drawn to, the study and explanation of human behavior. It perplexes me how such nuanced tendencies can be distilled into one discipline. Yet it inspires me to learn more.

My curiosity stems from my need to know how the world around me functions. I want to discover the undiscovered, I want to know the unknown. It keeps me on my toes.

School is a big part of this process of fulfillment. My favorite stage of an assignment is when the task sheet has first been handed to me. It is my habit of mind to briefly scan the page, and then immediately embark on my journey of research. For legal studies, my favorite subject, I bury myself in cases, reading extensively for my argumentative essays and inquiry reports. My curiosity almost bubbles over as I spout questions.

I don’t think I can fully satisfy my curiosity, because that would entail limitless research. It's like being thirsty. I can have a glass of water, and that will quench my thirst, but this sensation does not last. Soon, I will be thirsty again. And so I will repeat the process, finding more answers.

I have different ways of exploring my curiosity. I listen to podcasts on anything from economics to fashion while I do the dishes. I read about the health benefits of the vegan meals I cook while I eat them. I receive a news digest to my email everyday. I read auto-biographies to learn from the writers’ firsthand experiences. I feel impelled to visit at least one museum in every city I go to, my fascination with history blossoming as a result. I even volunteered over a summer at a local museum of innovation and exploration. The list goes on.

In a world with boundless information at our fingertips, finding answers can be almost like instant gratification. I can easily click on a heading in my inbox, or google the definition of a word. But I want to uncover the answers that are more implicit, as I think that the most pressing problems faced by society require more than the simple “quick fixes.” This is my motivation as I set off on my quest to go after more information and find unlikely solutions.

My curiosity is ingrained in my personality, it cannot be snuffed.

my curiosity

It’s no secret I’m one for poems, but a particularly poignant quote that has stuck with me comes from a poetry book by Rupi Kaur titled The Sun and Her Flowers. Kaur writes, “What's the greatest lesson a woman should learn? That since day one she's already had everything she needs within herself. It's the world that convinced her she did not."

These words resonate with me because as a woman, I feel pressured everyday to look, feel, and act a certain way. This is something I’ve had to navigate my whole life.

I’ve always been a leader: bold, and at times, idealistic. As a result, I’ve had to develop a strong belief in myself, and recognize my inherent worth and potential — even when others didn’t. I try to channel this into everything I do, but all too often I’m faced with an overwhelming self-doubt that clouds my confidence.

At the root of the problem, I believe Kaur is saying, is the structure of society. In a world that constantly places women under a magnifying glass, it becomes easy to internalize false messages. We are defined by our appearance, relationship status, or the opinions of others. We are influenced by social media and the seemingly unattainable standards for beauty. We are conditioned to look outside ourselves for validation. From the gender pay gap to the lack of female representation in leadership positions, society reinforces this inferiority complex. Can even the most self-assured ignore the pangs of society’s ever-rising bar of expectations?

Kaur’s answer to this, and the reason why I love the quote so much, is that yes, it is entirely possible — women are already equipped with the strength, resilience, and capability to achieve their goals and live a fulfilling life. Kaur’s message is overwhelmingly hopeful. Despite the eviscerating forces in society that often prevent women from recognizing their own abilities, Kaur challenges us to step beyond that and believe in ourselves.

This quote helped me to break free from those limiting beliefs and see myself in a new light. I realize that I’m enough just as I am, and I don’t need to rely on anyone else to validate my worth. I’m still learning how to tap into the confidence that exists within me, and trust in my own instincts and abilities. But ultimately, I want to be able to remain secure with myself while the world around me swirls.

return to oneself

Dear Xavier,

Your smile lights up my Tuesday nights. I teach many students, but few genuinely ask me about my day. Maybe you can read the exhaustion on my face by the time I reach my third tutoring session for the night. Or maybe it’s just your abundant kindness.

Your brow furrows as you explain to me the deep significance of the symbolism used in a Wes Anderson film. You’re creating your very own storyboard today for film class. I tend to approach assignments in a more linear fashion, but the way you let curiosity flow unfiltered from your mind takes me by surprise.

Before I know it I’m asking you about the emotion a certain color produces in a scene, and debating whether or not meaning is influenced by both maker and audience.

I don’t see you as someone with autism, a child diagnosed with learning difficulties. I see you as a brilliant thinker, a passionate creative. I love the conversations we have, because I feel like my role as a tutor is reversed. I’m learning from you.

So the next time I approach a new venture, I’ll let my mind wander, just like you do.

Your Friend,

Kiara

yellow

A sharp whisper, “Ingrid. Ingrid.” The words jolted her to the present. Curled up in a ball rocking back and forth, Ingrid sat up. She surveyed the room around her, searching desperately for something to lull her mind, bring her to her senses. A bed, a lamp, a chair. Nothing. The voice of the interrogator rang in her ear, louder this time: “Ingrid. I’m just going to ask you a few questions.”

Fear and confusion gripped her. Ingrid wondered who this steely voice belonged to and what questions were they going to ask. The voice sounded strangely familiar, although Ingrid couldn’t point out why.

“Let’s just start with this: how did you get here?” Ingrid contemplated this question, her head pounding as she fumbled for the answer.

“I don’t know.”

“Alright then, get yourself together, and tell me what you do know,” prodded the interrogator.

In, out, she breathed. “I...well, I’m in a strange room, and someone is questioning me. That’s all I know.” Ingrid clung to this, to what she knew, because if she thought anymore, she’d drive herself crazy.

The interrogator ignored this answer. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Here? Where was here? A room, one with particularly interesting walls. Ingrid studied the wallpaper. The colour was repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. It was one of those sprawling, flamboyant patterns that committed every artistic sin. Ingrid had a flash to how she used to lie awake as a child, just studying the wall. But as she stared blankly at it now, she couldn’t register this, couldn’t quite recall that she herself had chosen the wallpaper from an array of colours, settling on yellow because it had made her happy. This emotion was lost in her head-pounding paranoia, as the sickly yellows started to swirl around her, a hypnotic flurry.

“No I don’t know why I’m here,” Ingrid responded finally.

“Mmhmm. And do you recognise anything in this room? Anything at all?” The interrogator poked.

Ingrid slowly stood, scanning the room for something, anything, to prompt her recollection. She tilted her head. Maybe if she looked at the room from a different perspective, she would find answers to the interrogator’s questions. Then she saw something very faint — crowded pencil scrawls on the door frame. The dashes inched up the side of the wood beam, accompanied by little number markings that were illegible in their fadedness.

“What are you looking at?” asked the interrogator.

Ingrid knew those lines must mean something, but she couldn’t quite figure out what. And she certainly couldn’t figure out who this person was questioning her.

The afternoon sun stretched its flaxen arms through the window as if to grab her and shake her into some sense of memory. Ingrid’s eyes landed on a small vase of dried lavender, perched on the windowsill unassumingly. She picked it up and as she breathed in all of the lavender’s gentle scent, her mind’s tenseness momentarily dissolved. The fragrance transported Ingrid to the bright summer’s day where she had danced among the purple fields, swaying like the lavender in the baking sun. She had even picked some to stash in her pocket and take home, a token of the day’s delight. The scent detonated softly in Ingrid’s memory as she came back to the room she was in.

“Can you tell me something you can recognise?” The constant firing of questions never let up.

Searching so hard to retrieve the memory, Ingrid almost buckled. It was getting to be a great effort for Ingrid to think straight, this nervous weakness had her by the neck. An unsettling, heart-pounding worry began welling inside her. Dazed, dizzy, and still holding the delicate vase of lavender, Ingrid felt as though she was in a house with the gas stove left on; the atmosphere was dense and strange.

The stern voice of the interrogator again: “Ingrid. Listen to me. What —”

“SMASH!” A million geometric shards crushed under the intensity of Ingrid’s hands. Before Ingrid’s brain could register the piercing sound as broken glass, her eyes squeezed tight and a million knives sunk into her exposed skin. She froze, all but her thudding heart remaining statue-like on the wet tile. When her eyelids finally fluttered open, the floor was stained red with the scarlet colour creeping outward among the shards. Glass, lavender, and blood everywhere. Suddenly, Ingrid realised where she was. An overwhelming sense of remembrance washed over her like a wave with the rising tide. Ingrid was in her bedroom, there was no one there, and she knew, in that moment, that she needed help.

green

His story begins in the forest. A curious boy meanders through the waves of green, plodding along aimlessly. As he runs through the labyrinth of trees, he isn’t sure where he’s going, but maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. He emerges into a clearing where the forest stops suddenly before a cliff’s edge, and tufty clouds of white drift into view. There, rooted to the rocky earth, is a tree.

A sycamore tree, a large one, with its heart-shaped leaves dancing in the spring breeze, apple green in the softly shining sun. Clusters of fresh shoots and flower buds peek up from the ground beneath it. The tree embraces the boy as he leans against its knotted trunk. Gazing out at the sprawling view, he decides this is his spot.

The next day the boy returns, bubbling with excitement and carrying a small backpack, an explorer on a mission. He climbs all the way to the top of the tree, heart pounding with adrenaline as he gazes out at the boundless view. Clinging to the sturdy branch, he plucks binoculars from his pack and lets his curiosity whisk him away.

The blazing sun slips over the horizon, casting a dusty orange glow on the green of the tree. The boy finally climbs down, reluctant to leave his new perch.

He comes back the next day clutching a small pocket knife. The boy carves his name with intent into the burly trunk, a youthful impression on the crinkles of the bark. His tree.

And so he returns, day after day. Slumped under the blanket of shade, tucked into a good book, or processing his thoughts, he returns.

The tree is life, the tree is beauty, the tree is nature. It silently nurtures him in ways that words can’t. It is all at once bigger, stronger, more protective than any other presence in his life.

Each season passes, winter and spring, summer and fall. In summer’s brief flash of green glory, the boy returns, bright-eyed and pensive.

His eyes are full of mischief and his hair a tousled chestnut. The boy’s gangly arms tug at the branches on the tree and snap them across his muscly leg. He’s taller now, he can reach way up and pull himself effortlessly to his perch.

He brings his thoughts, his dreams, his questions to this spot, and somehow he always leaves a little lighter. But his happiness is fleeting.

Winter descends in pale hues and lonely skies. Most days, the boy curls up at the base of the tree. Sometimes it’s so bitterly cold that he doesn't turn up. As time passes, the world begins to feel all too real. The boy’s curiosity now feels more like apathy, and his solitude more like loneliness.

Growing pains.

Where were the protective arms of the tree in his real life? The boy yearns for real company, he clings onto a shred of hope that someone still cares. He feels as though he has mastered being alone, so much so that the feeling constricts him, latching onto his heart and threatening to swallow him whole. The tree stands strong.

One day when the leaves burst into flaming orange, the wind howls, snapping branches off the tree. The boy wishes the wind would sweep him away, too. He drags himself to the highest branch, just so he can feel a little bit mightier in the world. He weeps and weeps, and lets his tears rain on the earth beneath him. If only he could return to those carefree days, relive the dreams of that adventurous little boy.

Some time later, he storms back to the tree, temples pounding with rage. Rage against the world. It builds up inside him, manifests in his clenched jaw and hostile glare. He desperately tries to hold it in, but a scream from deep within forces its way out of his mouth, piercing the valley like an unleashed demon. The scream is as much an angry howl as it is a pained cry for help. He doesn’t care about company, he doesn’t care about the tree, he doesn’t care about anything. Why should he, when no one cares about him? He kicks the dirt beneath him and stomps away.

This is his last visit for a long time.

The forest is hollow and silent without his presence, the air stagnant and the foliage muted. The only memory of the boy is his name etched in the tree trunk, a vague reminder of what used to be.

His next visit is an ink-black night with the crescent moon a gleaming ivory. Dark circles ring his eyes and grizzly stubble shadows his sallow face. His hands are dirty, and this time they are not carrying a pocket knife, but a chainsaw.

The tree draws back slightly in a gust of wind as the man approaches with his chainsaw. His eyes flash. He rips the cord. Breathless with anger, he saws. He saws and saws until the mighty tree crashes to the earth, just a knobbly stump on the dark soil. The man collapses to the ground.

Nothing green can stay.