Every heart has a story to tell.
And my heart, fundamentally, is one built upon completionism, so it was that upon watching Studio Ghibli’s (unofficial) debut film, “Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind”, I had tacitly made it my goal to fully experience the gamut of whimsical narratives, accompanied by operatic soundscapes which comprise the animation studio’s complete oeuvre, in chronological order. And yes, undeniably, I adored “Spirited Away” and “Princess Mononoke”, cult classics that launched the Japanese studio into the Western consciousness, allowing them to compete with traditional behemoths like Disney and Pixar. But no feeling overwhelmed my soul more absolutely than the catharsis brought about watching the studio’s tenth release, Yoshifumi Kondo’s “Whisper of the Heart”.
That tapestry of heart-warming scenes was a hearth amidst the blizzard-like uncertainty of residential life. As I lugged my baggages towards the trio of lifts, my eyes were inexplicably drawn to the mural on the staircase depicting our mascots, foregrounding a palette of forest green. Droplets of sweat rolled down my back, and in that weariness I had subconsciously drawn parallels between the five types of loves depicted in the film and our five beloved, endangered animals. For in their state of endangerment and the College’s desire to preserve their continuity, I felt, in the embrace of unfamiliarity, a similar yearning to protect these tenets of love; so simple that we have, in our clinical pursuit of absolute excellence, taken them for granted.
So, take my hand. Let me guide you through the following vignettes, interwoven by these five facets of love.
One. My parents assisted with transporting pieces of my identity into that quaint little bedroom. They basked in the nostalgic reminiscence about an earlier stage of their courtship, sharing knowing smiles as they drew parallels between this new living space and my father’s old room in Birmingham. Between “no en-suite bathroom?” and “no communal fridge?”, I felt oddly defensive; was I living in a place deemed unbefitting by my parents? Was I, by extension, inadequate, for making the decision to move into campus? It was, in many ways, an extension of my father’s prior questioning of my choice to study pharmaceutical science; a point of contention ever since this year’s Graduate Employment Survey had been released (less than $4,000 as your starting salary? That’s about as low as you can get in this economy!) The pre-existing discomfiture in having my choices questioned was exacerbated in those moments of comparison, and as I felt myself grow standoffish, I recalled the first, but most often forgotten, feature of love – disagreements may not be engendered by animosity, but rather love and concern. So, I smiled, understanding that their words came not from a place of dispute, but plain and simple concern.
I internalised their intentions, but I started writing my narrative anyway.
Two. It continues as I walk through the college campus under moonlight, sifting through cirrus clouds, sentimentality flickering behind my eyelids. Like a petulant cat, I wandered from place to place, head emptied of thoughts, strolling for no purpose other than satiating my curiosity and calibrating myself to these unfamiliar surroundings. I pawed languidly from one location to another.
I opened the doors to the multipurpose hall, and in that act it became an effigy of exploration. Flounder without fear of judgement, pursue something new for the sake of understanding yourself. The dining hall, shared with our neighbours, began to morph into a confluence of variegated identities, so diverse but, nevertheless, unified by a thousand different cadences lamenting the same diluted Milo. Murals on the walls, from predecessors long graduated, breathe humanity into the common spaces, stories transmitted and preserved by brushstrokes. And when, finally, I peer into the floor lounge, seeing people share silence, susurrations or shouts over laptops of foregone assignments, I recognised how I was becoming a product of the places around me. In all of its idiosyncrasies I saw a place where I could foster love for my ambitions, where I could transfigure doubt into growth. Love is stored within the College’s walls, and through doors of chalk and reverberations of band sessions, it is emanated.
I bottle up this passion, and I fill my pen with it.
Three. Alone in my room, I think to face inwards, fidgeting with the packets of biscuits and snacks strewn atop my table. The wall, white and pristine, reflects the blank slate of my experiences in this College – yet to be actualised.
My love affair with the craft of writing had started in Junior College, when I had discovered the empowerment one feels when creating. Because, in its flexibility, writers are unfettered, as words have the potential to be transcendental. Because: within everyone is a jewel; revealing it requires time, but it is a sacrifice we should be willing to make. Even if we embark on our journeys, taking first steps whilst cursing our amateurish left feet, fostering passion will bring purpose to the time invested. Show your projects love, and be amazed at the places that can take you. Be buoyant, and allow yourself to be bewildered by the new horizons revealed by the zephyrs of a hard-earned talent. For this, I thank the support of Treehouse, and all other IGs for nurturing the love of our crafts.
Four. It is in this regard that I plead all readers to practice the least glamorous type of love – self-love. Forgive yourself for imperfection; recognising the humanity in your weaknesses and to love yourself in spite of it, is difficult. Self-directed admonishment is easier than appraisal, and as my finger presses down on the backspace, making amendments and restructuring this piece over and over again, I begin to view my writing as an unpolished stone. Produce a chisel and fuel my heart with self-affirmed dedication, I carve a hole into its dull and matte granite surface, through which excellence, that acclaimed concept I had poured hours into unearthing, shone radiantly.
Now finally, do these words shimmer?
And five. In my room, I stare at the clock. Midterms are coming, and I have scarcely spent time with my floormates. Well, time is strange after all. It is amorphous, yet delicate, but brutally steadfast and constant in its militaristic march. I think about the people around me – artists, athletes, photographers, debaters, singers, runners, musicians, dancers, teachers – and I find myself feeling enamoured, regardless if the person in question is connected to me by a platonic, familial or romantic bond, at their heartfelt dedication to sharpening their crafts. For see, when we understand that the universality of “passion” necessitates continual effort, that the people around us have struggled to vault over the same hurdles of self-doubt and insufficiency, we fall all the harder for the people we love.
We fall in love with their dedication to love.
I turn my head to face the cork board. I still feel as if it had only been a week prior that I was still a stranger to UTown, a deracinated vagabond treading across its pathways. Yet its blueprints are now my fingerprints, whorls and swirls of new memories slowly and indelibly engraved into my skin. But inheritance is not innervation; they are differentiated by internalisation, by love. As I pin the pictures of my summer orientation activities into the board, the chasm between my identity within my faculty and within my residential college becomes blindingly obvious. The photo booth picture, a snapshot of circumstantial-turned-treasured friendships between dancers, watches me toil and plan for my juniors; the reciprocity of love for the people around me.
But the rest of the board remains sepia; a trunk with no foliage. The barrenness warrants a degree of apology, for missed breakfast jios and nights not spent in floor lounges but cooped up within this room – the backdrop upon which I have crafted the last thousand or so words. Tembusu College is a haven. It is community, it is passion, and it is unity, and for all that it is, I am bedazzled by the radiance of my second home. So the clock continues counting its seconds, and my time left here is only becoming increasingly abbreviated. I have chosen to devoted more of my time to my faculty, and the loss of the time I am able to spend in my college brings me anguish and chagrin. Eventually, I must cover its desolate wasteland surface with pinned memories, with memorabilia of blessings lived.
However, while the way I have chosen to allocate my time does invoke a sense of loss, it does not bring me shame. Being proud of the things we love, of the people, hobbies, places and values that keep us taking measured step after measured step amidst the hectic pandemonium of university life, is not something that should bring us guilt, for indomitable love is a symbol of perseverance, and certainty in one’s own place in the universe. It is a unifying source of power.
My pen has not run out of ink, for my heart cannot be emptied of its potential to love.
But something seems off. Certainly, these words are mine, but how much of this story has been mine alone?
Part 2 will be released on 19 Oct 2024. Stay tuned 🙂
Banner photo by Zhang Haoran
Cover photo & image from “Whisper of the Heart” (1995), directed by Yoshifumi Kondō, Studio Ghibli. Retrieved via Imgur.
About the Author:
Jeron Sia, a Year 1 Pharmaceutical Science student, loves running because it gives him an excuse to listen to more music. He would like to implore people to listen to Just Like Heaven by The Cure.