Unraveling

a story

Ach! I can feel the ropes under my skin. Tight, so tight! Tender knots tied under my shoulder blades. If I could only pry beneath these bony plates - the relief! Man was to be made of blood and bone, so why did the Lord choose to fill me with hemp? Dr. Schneider, the fool, tried to convince me I had “neuro-muscular pain”. Bah! Rope doesn’t appear on X-Ray. I told him as much, but he wouldn’t listen. Imagine, lecturing me on the fundamentals of electromagnetic radiation. I’ve studied under the great Dr. Hofmann, graduated first in class from Heidelberg, been cited thousands of times. Yet I was “recommended” to be locked up in this institution. Dr. Schneider must’ve seen my papers, he must’ve been jealous and chosen to strike while I was weak. The talentless, vengeful, idiotic - ahhhh!...

I mustn’t get too excited. The twine weaves between my ribs. With every breath, I feel frayed ends rub against bruised cartilage. But not for much longer...

Six months - has it only been six months since that scalding shower? As I bathed under the usual trickle one night, I began to hear a faint whine. Suddenly, steam filled the room and I was blasted by an excruciating spray. My neck and back were burned raw for days. I would curse my dolt of a landlord, Mr. Weinger, but were it not for his incompetent plumbing I might’ve never discovered the rope. Every morning I ripped off newly formed scabs to drain the pus beneath. On the fifth day, as I performed my ritual of scraping and cleaning, I felt a tremor at the base of my skull. There, beneath the blood, was the unmistakable tip of a rope. I grasped it, tugged softly, and felt the pull burrow deep beneath my skin. Lightheaded, I stumbled to my chambers and collapsed.

I slept feverishly for three days. When I awoke, my sheets were encrusted with stiff blood. I touched the back of my neck and lo, there was nothing but smooth skin, the insidious rope healed below. It couldn’t hide though - I had felt it, I knew it was there! And with that knowledge, I started to notice it everywhere.

It began as a tension in my neck, a soft pressure that brought headaches and insomnia. Slowly, the soreness creeped it’s way down my spine and into my shoulder blades. I tried practicing aerobics, hoping to make the cords more compliant. But as I stretched one side, the other simply became more twisted. There wasn’t just one rope burrowed beneath my skin, but a hopelessly tangled web.

After the third month, knots began to form around my nerves and blood vessels. My fingertips, numb and weak, could no longer hold a chalk to a slate. I was delirious with exhaustion, irate from the pain. My supervisor bid me time away from research to seek professional help. And in my searching, I came to discover the utter ineptitude of medicine. So called “specialists” laughed at me. They told me the pain was in my mind, that I was lazy and simply wanting to be away from work. They prescribed me opium, a tincture, a blessing, or a confession. If I needed a confession, it would only be for wishing hell upon each of them.

Worst of all, not one soul believed in the rope. Despite the fact that I could describe it in great detail, I was only ever met with coughs and averted gazes. I brought a bundle of twine to help explain my predicament to a particularly dense herbalist. She thought I was going to tie her up, and called the police on me. Imagine, me! A respected member of the Munich Physical Society. The police warned me not to return, as if I’d waste more time on that bat.

The pain grew unbearable. I could not sit without my feet growing numb, my knotted jaws making every bite a misery. So I started searching for surgeons who would remove the rope. That’s how I met Dr. Schneider, the fraud. When he refused my surgery, I knew that he needed to see the rope. I withdrew the pocket knife I had brought, placed it over my forearm, and - as I had imagined so many times before - sliced down its length. I shouted for Dr. Schneider to come look as I pushed tendons aside, hunting for the cunning twine. But I had not considered the effects of blood loss. The world turned red, then dark, then completely black.

I awoke in the stony cell of an institution, and have remained here since. Travesty. Should man not have the right to his own body, and the pursuit of better health? Should he not be permitted to take whatever steps are necessary to live a dignified life? I am of sound mind - better than sound, brilliant! A mind brought low by a rare malady, left to suffer alone, imprisoned in this wretched place.

The nurses here are lazy. They did not mind when I asked for an extra water glass, nor notice when I only returned one after my meal. I feared that I lacked the strength to break it against these cool concrete walls. But sure enough, the shards lie before me. And with them, liberation.

Have you ever pulled a single torn thread, only to watch it all unravel? I need only cut in just the right place and the rope will release me. My hands are shaking, but my mind is calm. Now I place the broken glass behind my neck and stretch back, stretching twine which binds my arms, shoulders, and spine. I pull the shard down, quickly down, down towards the rope beneath my skin, and

for E.A. Poe

A Field of Temples

a memory

In central Myanmar, along the winding Irrawaddy River, lies a desert field covered with thousands of ancient temples. Crumbling stupas and tiered pagodas extend to the dusty horizon. Chants can be heard from a nearby monastery, still in use after hundreds of years. At sunrise, hot air balloons fill the sky.

When I was 20, I saw a picture of Bagan and became transfixed. At that time, my inner world felt so small. Here was a reminder of the vastness of life, and its fundamental unpredictability. I had never heard of Bagan - how many places like it might exist?

Myanmar was the first time I'd traveled alone. I was an odd sight - grey sweatpants, shirt, and backpack. Slip-on sneakers for easy removal before entering holy sites. A thick copy of The Wise Man's Fear, my one indulgence in an otherwise minimal kit.

During a layover, I looked within my monochrome self and realized that I hadn't truly reflected on why I was traveling. Several possibilities arose. I had become very sick the year before, and spent months in repairs. My first love ended, only for fresh pining to take its place. And during what became my most successful semester, the engineer in me died.

I had lost faith in myself, for allowing these things to happen, for making choices that led to morose philosophizing in an overpriced Burger King at Doha International. Through travel, I yearned to find agency, identity, and meaning. It's a good thing the flight didn't require checking all those heavy expectations.

Myanmar was filled with many lessons I hope to explore in the future. Today, we return to the desert fields of Bagan.

I arrived at 3am to a shuttered inn - poorly timed night buses were a chronic oversight. After a few hours, the innkeeper came to meet me. My room wouldn't be available for some time, but I could rent an e-bike and catch the temples at sunrise. With my bag safely stowed, I hopped onto a bike, revved into the darkness, and valiantly wiped out.

After dragging the limp vehicle back and paying for damages, I sat in the waiting room, shivering. A few minutes later, the innkeeper returned with half of what I paid and a new set of keys. I vainly protested, now a firm believer in legs over wheels. She simply pointed at the brightening sky and shooed me onto another bike.

I still remember the first time I saw the fields. Green copses gave way to amber sand and golden sky. Soft beams of light filtered over dusty ruins. Temples extended to the horizon, and hot air balloons drifted above. I felt filled with the knowledge that I'd traveled around the world to be here. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.

I spent the next couple of days exploring the fields on my now-trusty bike, stopping by altars and lacquer artisans. Some ruins were open, affording grand views of the expanse, while others were still in use by locals. All required removing footwear, a perilous activity given rumored scorpions.

Up to this point I had been feeling increasingly isolated. Some days I spoke no English, relying instead on simple Burmese and vague hand gestures. Once I couldn't communicate at a rest stop, and was unable to order food. I found a curb and sullenly ate my emergency oreos, certain that I'd find humor in this one day. Another time I was awoken on a night bus by flashlights and urgent tones. Men brought me to the side of the road, where they abstractly conveyed that I'd need to pay before I could enter their city.

During my trip, I repeatedly crossed paths with a Belgian man named David. Tall, with dark wheaty hair and a jubilant smile, David was a storied traveler used to chance encounters. On my third day in Bagan, fate decreed that we meet again. Resigned to the cosmic inevitability of our companionship, we settled to hire a boat together and visit a monastery across the Irrawaddy.

After fording the river we embarked on a steep, lengthy hike. We were both constantly out of breath, partly from exertion, and partly from the conversation which flowed between us. After so much time spent alone I was eager to speak, and took great comfort in the sound of my mother tongue spoken by another. Eventually we reached the summit, exhausted but triumphant. Suddenly David pointed, a rueful grin on his face, and I turned to see locals driving up the mountain on a previously hidden road.

On our way back across the Irrawaddy, I spotted a small, barren island which had emerged in the dry season. I remarked how exciting it would be to walk upon untouched land, but didn't want to bother our driver. David looked at me, confused, and told me that if I wanted something in life I should simply do it. Struck by this sudden profundity, I asked the boatman to make a stop, and we docked beside the bank. I stepped onto the sand and took in the vast space, brought here by genuine connection and deliberate choice.

We returned with half the day remaining. David, now sporting a worsening cold, committed to finding a juice parlor and hunkering until his night bus arrived. He invited me to join, and I was once again confronted by an unexpected choice. Do I spend my last few hours back in the field of temples, exploring an otherworldly place I'd traveled so far to see? Or do I spend it with someone I'd just met and may never see again, discussing politics and love and juice?

We sat, drank, and talked until dusk arrived. And when it was time, I hopped on my bike and sped into the darkness, one last time.

Thanks to Andy and Avery for reading. Thanks to David for speaking and listening.

● Points of You: Four Friends from MIT on Growing Up

● originally published on Amazon

a book

Over 4,000 copies sold - Featured in Forbes, LATimes, Thrive Global, and the MIT Alumni Association

"Points of You" is a book about making mistakes and gaining new points of view. It is written for teenagers and young adults in high school and transitioning into college.

In "Points of You," three friends & I share real and unfiltered accounts of what we wish we’d known while growing up. Each note is written as a primer for readers to reflect on rather than as an absolute truth. Featuring fifteen chapters on everything from maintaining friendships and making tough decisions to honing life goals and dealing with hard emotions, "Points of You" is an intimate guide to getting ready for the next stage of life.