December 1, 2018
It’s 5 o clock in the morning and I am clocking in for a session of confession. 418 pages into my new book, and I am drowning in a cocktail of my emotion. My psyche is filled with a sweet and sour concoction of excitement, inspiration, jealousy, and admiration. I am excited and inspired by her story because I feel that one day, her outcome would be or could be mine. I feel jealousy in her passion and thrive. Because at this moment, I am only a bystander, a prospector of her willingness to overcome the problems presented to her. She often did this through hard work, even if that meant she would have to put herself in uncomfortable situations. Something that I have repeatedly and shamelessly neglected to do. What started with admiration for her spirit shortly morphed into an ugly shade of envy. I find myself constantly torn between wishing for her success and hoping for her failure, and I am disgusted by the authenticity of this unfabricated sin.
So much of the book is embedded with triggers of my past, almost like a block-chain of coincidence and common ground. The chapters are embroidered with sparks of my own memories and whiffs of nostalgia, completely and utterly trapping me in between the pages. Although we come from completely different families and moral upbringing, the resemblances of certain areas in her early life force me to compare myself. Bringing into contrast the things I did differently, the way I thought differently in my childhood. At times this makes it difficult to turn the next page, as if there had been an addition to the weight of the blanket enveloping me in my own self loathe. And here I am, forced to wonder:
If I were in her shoes,
Would I have made it to Cambridge?