What do you fear for yourself in the future?
Haya stared at the question written on the paper.
For some reason, her college has a dedicated class about preparing students for the life of being in college — especially this college. Haya thought it was a nuisance, really. It added an extra unit that, in her humble opinion, could have been a free elective but she was no administrator of this institution. It was a mix between those high-school psychology classes she had read from cheesy young adult novels written by mostly American authors, and the annual school orientation week held every opening semester, which she usually skipped after she finished her freshman year. In short, it was boring.
Fact-checking tests were all spoon-fed from the PowerPoint presentations, thus Haya hardly ever studied for this subject compared to her major courses. And since this was technically a course under the school guidance office, there were a lot of lectures about the self: reflections, questions, introspections, and expectations. What did Haya do in order to answer questions related to oneself? She spun truth with sprinkles of lies; enough to make the answers sound honest, nevertheless they were white lies. Haya felt no guilt when faux versions of her life spilled from her lips and written with her hand as she shared them to the class with a slight hesitation or a bashful smile. She got good scores and good grades—the method did not matter as long as she passed the course with none of her true personal feelings getting in the way.
Professor Fobos gave another lecture about the self; this time it was about being a proper college student. How one should be a model of the values and practices expected and ordained by this fine, prestigious institution. That these values heralded by the college should be practiced and honored even outside the school, and more importantly during the future endeavors of the students such as career-building (an ideal career, white collar and all). Haya, of course, couldn’t care less. Her vision of a career was not supported by the school. This college was simply another tool in her life, and not some kind of personality or identity she had to embrace. To her, there were more important things to do other than adhering to the values and expectations of this place. She just needed to take her time.
Time.
Her watch told her it was a quarter until ten o’clock.
“Okay, class! For the next few minutes, you will only be answering test questions. If you’re done, put the test on my desk and you may go.”
Haya snapped back from her trance. Her classmates groaned and sighed.
Ah, another surprise quiz. Haya might as well pray to have some kind of retention from the previous lecture.
Professor Fobos placed stacks of papers on each of the front-row desks and instructed them to pick one and pass the rest to the back. The room became a cacophony of papers shuffling, chairs screeching, and bags zipping and unzipping. Haya clicked her ballpen as she took one of the quizzes from the stack and passed the rest to the back. She wrote down her name, degree program, the course name, and the date like a well-programmed machine — automatically performing tasks input by the programmer. She read the instructions before she perused the rest of the words on the paper.
The quiz was straightforward: four questions, each should be answered by a short opinion essay. The questions were rather personal, to say the least, and Haya couldn’t hold back a sigh. She had hoped it would be a simple multiple-choice quiz, since that would be quicker to answer. Oh, well, what was given had been given. Haya began to read the first question:
How do you see yourself in the future?
Ah. That’s easy, Haya thought. Her pen elegantly flowed on the surface of the paper as she wrote down her answer,
I see myself fulfilling my dreams of becoming a renowned artist. My stories are told, and my art resonates with the people. The world inside my head is greatly shared by the people, creating communities that celebrate my works.
Haya was satisfied with what she had written. Before she proceeded to the next question, she reread her answer to see if she could add more. Second question:
What can you do in the present to achieve your dreams in the future?
Once again, her elegant pen glided on the paper.
To keep improving my artistic skills. There are still a lot of things to learn about art, and I still make a lot of mistakes to this day. From these mistakes I can improve, and with the existence of the Internet, I can observe and study how other artists improve their skills as well as learn how to fix some of my mistakes. And as Oscar Wilde said, “Experience is the name we give to our mistakes.”
Haya gave herself a phantom pat on the back as she finished the essay with that quote. She had wanted to use that Oscar Wilde quote after she had Googled about “mistakes” and “regret.” She barely remembered why she searched those two words. It was probably during one of her down episodes. Those words by Oscar Wilde — an author she has mixed feelings about — comforted her these past few weeks. The stress from college and her passion for her artistic capabilities have been clashing and fighting over control of her spirit.
Time. It was one minute past ten.
A few minutes till my lunch break. Haya glanced again at her paper and moved on to the next question.
What is your definition of success?
My definition of success is that my art touches the heart of the people. It must mean something to them, whether positively or negatively. That is how I want my art to be perceived. To be felt and be remembered.
Ah, finally! Last question, Haya gleefully thought. Once the answer was written, she was out of here. A small smile painted her lips as she proudly reviewed her answers. However, that smile came and went as she read the final question of the test:
What do you fear for yourself in the future?
Huh.
Haya stared at her paper.
It was not the first time this class had the topic of fear. The previous lecture was somewhat related to that. Some had irrational fears of certain tangible things—like spiders and snakes. Some had shared their fear of intangible things such as failure, disappointment, and heartbreak. Haya remembered she shared that her fear was of needles and failure. She never really elaborated in much detail, for she only shared an anecdote from her childhood when she took her first flu vaccination, thus the fear. As for failure, she simply said “the same as others who fear failure. I am afraid that my work is all for naught.”
In truth, however, Haya was never afraid of failure. For her, it was an inevitability of self-improvement. Discovery would not be spread with awe if not for multiple failures. Triumph would be an empty victory without the hills and valleys of failure. The pain of failure, nonetheless, had shattered the spirit of many individuals—including her—but the human spirit was a thing of wonders. The unquenchable thirst to reach success, even if it was far from their grasps, launched the indomitable will of perseverance. As she had written in the second question of the quiz a quote from the eccentric Oscar Wilde: “Experience is the name we give to our mistakes.”
No. There was something worse than failure in her eyes — in her experience. Something that haunted the world even before she was born. A presence treasured like gold yet also taken for granted. Again and again, she mourned for it after every mistake and every regret.
Time.
The regrets she wished to bury were because of the times she lost. The years that hindered her improvement and nearly killed her love for art, time made sure she remembered those years when she once more picked up a pencil and drew a terrible piece.
The short time her beloved friend and companion, Ari, as he choked out his last breath in her arms surrounded by family. His beady eyes clouded white, and his canine teeth rotten while drool and vomit spilled.
The time lost between Haya and her father, who she once clung onto the cuff of his sleeves and begged him to not go away from the province. Now both were together in the same city; they looked at each other almost like strangers.
The time she sabotaged with her newfound heart as he poured his own heart to her. But it was a horribly timed confession, for she was drowning in her sorrows and coping with grief. She feared the day he would realize how rotten she truly was and would walk out of her life. Therefore, she decided she would be the first to walk out from their love bubble.
The question stared back at her. It was too personal, too painful. If only she could turn back time, then maybe everything would be a completed puzzle! But would there be new things she would come to regret if she had the power to manipulate time? New mistakes she could not erase? New paths and opportunities eaten by time itself?
Time. Time!
She managed to look at the wall clock right above the whiteboard in front of her, staring down like a king to a peasant. It was twenty minutes past ten.
Haya had only ten minutes left to complete her test. One by one, her classmates stood and passed their papers to the professor. They packed their bags, said their goodbyes, and left the room. Some gathered with their friends as they left gossiping and laughing. Her knee bounced up and down as she continued to construct a paragraph in her mind. For the first time in this course, Haya thoughtfully cared about what to write on an essay question — and not one bit of her soul did she like the feeling.
“Time check: Ten twenty-three. I’ll give you five minutes to finish. I will not give any extensions beyond that,” Professor Fobos remarked.
Time went by quickly again. Haya, with her disorganized thoughts, placed down the tip of her pen and scribbled down whatever came to her mind (anything other than time). Her hand hurtled through the paper as random words attempted to connect with one another.
…I fear that…
Failure…
…in the future.
…time…
My…art…
…time…
“Alright! Time is up. Pass your papers.”
Haya stopped writing. She dared not review her answers. She stood up, walked toward the professor, and placed her test paper on the professor’s desk. The school bell then rang. The rest of her classmates quickly exited the room as Professor Fobos disconnected his laptop from the projector device.
Haya put all her items back into her bag. She arranged and rearranged the inside so that her only good school bag would not look like a mess the weird bumps and valleys created by her stuff inside.
Inside her head, however, was truly a mess.
She was still hung up on the final question. It lingered like a vengeful ghost. It mocked her — taunting her for being dishonest. Haya had to reflect on something she had avoided.
You’re wasting time.
The next batch of students entered the room, talking loudly, murmuring softly as they occupied the empty seats. And Haya, lost in her world, was unaware of what was happening.
Hurry up!
Where in the world was her phone? She swore she inserted it somewhere in the tiny pockets. Wha—
If only she had not stopped her passion for years. Maybe she would not have to race with time to becoming perfect or trying to be the best of the best.
She picked up her phone and checked the time. It was ten thirty-one.
“Ms. Caliente. Is everything all right over there?”
Haya glanced up at Professor Fobos. There was a concerned look on his face. She looked around and noticed unfamiliar people. Her eyes widened, “Oh! Sorry, professor. I thought I had lost my phone. Turned out it was still in my bag, haha.”
She zipped her bag closed, tossed it over her shoulder, and briskly walked out of the classroom as she bid farewell to her professor.
Haya never believed the hallways of the school could be this long, or maybe she never paid attention to the length of it? Even with a faster pace, the exit seemed to be moving farther and farther away, almost like running away from her. Her muscles were tight all over when she passed by fellow students as they walked forward to the next period, while she wanted to go back home. And she must go home or she may not be able to shake off the dread that was preying on her. She bumped into some students while she was in her mindscape, a silent apology given to them as she hurriedly went out of the gate.
She was home—she still felt horrible. Time went by with no remorse for her, and when she unlocked the door to her rented bed space, it was already lunch time. Haya originally planned to buy a combo meal from the canteen at lunch time, but she’d rather lie in bed right now. Haya’s vision blurred a bit, and her head felt like it was beaten by a hammer as it pounded to the beat of her heart. The bed was her only comfort now. Without even taking off her uniform, she laid down on a thin mattress she called her bed and let the world around her be encased in darkness—slowly the noise from outside her window and the constant buzz from her ceiling fan began to fade into silence.
