Sparked
Flashes of lightning penetrated the closed blinds. Rain plummeted to the ground. A typical summer thunderstorm, I thought. But God was angry that night, and I was far too submerged in the world of video games to notice. Beguiled by my first-person shooter, I was not fazed by the sound or sight of the storm; however, I was fazed by its feel.
At 1:15 in the morning, Mom hurried to my room to confirm that lightning had struck our house. I followed her to witness it first-hand: the electricity sparked flames, and our house began to ignite. I ran back to my room, grabbed shoes and a sweatshirt, and took a final glance inside. At first, I saw my Xbox and stacks of video games. In the corner, there was my computer, still logged into MySpace. I saw the remains of my favorite midnight snack, pork roll and cheese (Dad always told me it was good at the time, but I'll have my regrets when I get older). My bed was unmade, yet I barely slept - for how could I have dreams? My old cave was sloppy and disorganized, as was my brain. I needed to go. We evacuated our home and watched it burn from the street.
I was removed from my room in more ways than one. We moved to a temporary home, and I soon began to work as a caddy at two different country clubs, spending the remainder of my summer outdoors. There was something ironic about me doing work for another. I often asked myself, how can I carry the bags of others when I cannot carry my own? Each day, I came home physically worn and mentally exhausted - this was the cost of late maturity. But my feeble muscles grew strong and my smooth face became scruffy as I recovered from my beaten-down state. I closed my eyes to sleep, and soon it was all over.
When I returned to school for my junior year, things began to make sense. I applied my persistence as a caddy to newfound diligence as a student. I had been shaped to seek productivity and emerging passions filled my chamber: a collection of books on philosophy and economics, a television tuned into presidential election coverage, and a Chemistry textbook with notes inside the columns. My studies soon paid dividends, and my cognitive abilities began to flourish. I guess those long days in the caddy shack fueled an academic turnaround.
In the summer of '09, we moved back into our original house. When I look at this familiar place today, I see a profound change in scenery - at first driven by hard work, but then sparked by a genuine fixation for learning. Stacks of video games have disappeared and back issues of the New Yorker begin to form piles. With my laptop in front of me, I am entranced by math lectures, eager to indulge in the corresponding problem sets (I always tell my friends that my nerdiness will pay off when I get older). By my bedside, Louisa Guilder's new book on quantum physics lies open, and microparticles seem much more interesting than Microsoft. Knowledge is the new game. My intellect wards off my adolescence. Now I can sleep, and now I can dream.
Flashes of lightning penetrated the closed blinds. Rain plummeted to the ground. A typical summer thunderstorm, I thought. But God was angry that night, and I was far too submerged in the world of video games to notice. Beguiled by my first-person shooter, I was not fazed by the sound or sight of the storm; however, I was fazed by its feel.
At 1:15 in the morning, Mom hurried to my room to confirm that lightning had struck our house. I followed her to witness it first-hand: the electricity sparked flames, and our house began to ignite. I ran back to my room, grabbed shoes and a sweatshirt, and took a final glance inside. At first, I saw my Xbox and stacks of video games. In the corner, there was my computer, still logged into MySpace. I saw the remains of my favorite midnight snack, pork roll and cheese (Dad always told me it was good at the time, but I'll have my regrets when I get older). My bed was unmade, yet I barely slept - for how could I have dreams? My old cave was sloppy and disorganized, as was my brain. I needed to go. We evacuated our home and watched it burn from the street.
I was removed from my room in more ways than one. We moved to a temporary home, and I soon began to work as a caddy at two different country clubs, spending the remainder of my summer outdoors. There was something ironic about me doing work for another. I often asked myself, how can I carry the bags of others when I cannot carry my own? Each day, I came home physically worn and mentally exhausted - this was the cost of late maturity. But my feeble muscles grew strong and my smooth face became scruffy as I recovered from my beaten-down state. I closed my eyes to sleep, and soon it was all over.
When I returned to school for my junior year, things began to make sense. I applied my persistence as a caddy to newfound diligence as a student. I had been shaped to seek productivity and emerging passions filled my chamber: a collection of books on philosophy and economics, a television tuned into presidential election coverage, and a Chemistry textbook with notes inside the columns. My studies soon paid dividends, and my cognitive abilities began to flourish. I guess those long days in the caddy shack fueled an academic turnaround.
In the summer of '09, we moved back into our original house. When I look at this familiar place today, I see a profound change in scenery - at first driven by hard work, but then sparked by a genuine fixation for learning. Stacks of video games have disappeared and back issues of the New Yorker begin to form piles. With my laptop in front of me, I am entranced by math lectures, eager to indulge in the corresponding problem sets (I always tell my friends that my nerdiness will pay off when I get older). By my bedside, Louisa Guilder's new book on quantum physics lies open, and microparticles seem much more interesting than Microsoft. Knowledge is the new game. My intellect wards off my adolescence. Now I can sleep, and now I can dream.
