Chapter Three: Reality (~jinghan)

It was 7:27pm and I was travelling home on the train after my first day of classes at university feeling like I had suffered an embarrassing defeat at the hands of reality. The sky was still a bright blue, but the long shadows and my exhausted body reminded me of how late it was. All through high school I had never travelled home by myself at such a late hour.

Merely a week ago – but then again a week seemed like an undetectable long time – I had been full of energy and propelled by the egotism of completing my final exams, but now as I opened up the newspaper to read I could barely hold up the pages of the double spread. And it wasn’t entirely physical exhaustion. As my eyes passed over the bold black headlines, my mind seemed to panic at the mass of print. I could feel myself flinching away from the meanings of the words – something about earthquakes, court cases and political controversies. Suddenly, I wasn’t so curious to know about the bigger world out there, but wanted to retreat to the safety of my own familiar world.

I gingerly put down the newspaper. And swapped it for the novel I had in my bag. It was a book I had read before, many years ago when I was just starting high school. The language that had been absorbing now seemed simple – even childish – and yet there was something comforting about the fantastical world that it allowed me to escape to. It was finite, controlled; I saw through the eye of the omniscient narrator. For the first time during the day, I was in control of everything.

Train stations passed by. Pages turned. And slowly the emotions of the first day withdrew to allow calmer reflection…

I had walked into the lecture with a cheerful smile. But my eyes gave away my uncertainty about where to sit. The ticking of the second hand made my loitering more and more awkward, and I took the closest seat in the first row.

“Hi, do you mind if I sit here?”

I sat anyway.

“What’s your name?”

I forgot almost as soon as he replied.

“Sorry, what’s your name again?”

He grumbled something about names not being important.

“True! True! I must say I am inclined to join your side of the argument!”

It wasn’t an argument, he said.

It hadn’t been what I meant. And as other people settled into the lecture hall, I couldn’t help repeating the conversation in my head. I scorned myself for not portraying a sincere impression of myself. I hadn’t meant to be so unnaturally friendly. Was I really so desperate for someone to talk to? What I really wanted was people to relate to, and my cocky outwards excitement was exactly the opposite of what I was feeling on the inside.

As the lecture started, I got the impression that while I only understood part of what the lecturer said about the content we would go through in the semester, everyone else had already learnt everything. It wasn’t true, because I was nodding and laughing along with the class – as if I understood everything too. But what was true was that I was among smart people, and that being the top of the class wouldn’t be what it meant back in high school. I desperately wanted to turn to the girl on my other side and confide my half-incomprehension, but instead I laughed along with the class as the lecturer made a witty comment about gravity. (Something I could understand!) Beneath that laughter in the lecture hall there seemed to be a shared desperation for understanding, but also a competitive need to reassure ourselves of our standing in the class.

At 5:45pm I was still at the university – more or less alone. I had often stayed late at school before, but there were always familiar teachers and students around back in high school. Out of either curiosity or obligation I had decided to go to an orchestral society rehearsal. Back at school I had fearlessly attended all sorts of co-curricular activities on every day of the week – and was proud of it. But as I searched for the rehearsal room I kept asking myself: what was I doing? I didn’t even have an instrument at the moment. And how many pieces even have a part for harp? Secretly, I was hoping they would send me away because they did not have a part for me, or were unimpressed by my standard of playing.

But instead, they gave me a folder with one sheet of music in it, promised me a photocopy to take home at the next rehearsal, said I could stay and watch the rehearsal and invited me to join them for dinner at a pub after the rehearsal at 8pm. I clung to the music and counted the bars. But at the same time, I was constructing an escape plan in my head. I had hardly even been out to dinner with my friends in the city, let alone a whole orchestra of strangers. I had never been to a pub. I was usually home by 8pm. I did not like being sober around drunk people – even when they were my friends. I was more self-conscious after a drink than before…

Too many things were changing all in one day.

And this, after escaping the rehearsal, was how I found myself travelling home at 7:27pm after my first day at university, feeling like reality had slapped me in the face a little too hard. I certainly wasn’t in high school any more, I told my imaginary Toto. Before the summer I had thought that I knew exactly who I was and my place in the world, but now that I realised the world was hell of a lot bigger than I thought I felt like I had been knocked back to square one. I didn’t know who I was or who I wanted to be. Never had I felt so young and ignorant.

Stripped of my post-year-twelve egotism, I forced myself to take things slowly for the rest of the week. I ignored all club and society meetings: wanting to go because everyone said, “join clubs! Join clubs!” but knowing that I could not handle it all in one go. I approached people with respectful (and somewhat fearful) caution, and discovered people with similar viewpoints and people I could talk about class work with. Each time I stood in the doorway of a lecture hall the nauseating gamble for a seat to sit in lessened a little bit.

Reality was still one point up on me. But the game wasn’t over yet.