10ENG AT3 - Garlic Pasta and the Heat Death of the Universe

If the world…

If the world was ending tomorrow I’d still want to eat my mother’s garlic pasta.

She is a very thoughtful cook…

She is a very thoughtful cook - more than I give her credit for. I’m occasionally reminded how much I take her meals for granted when my friends can’t keep their barbaric hands off my lunch. 

I don’t think I often acknowledge…

I don’t think I often acknowledge her past in culinary school. Maybe that’s because while my mouth is full with the success of a good cook, my mind’s too busy already calculating the next bite.

It was during a fifth period…

It was during a fifth period on a Friday when time stopped being of the essence and started being a pain in the neck. After an hour of playing eye-tag with it across the room, I would’ve asked the clock “What are we?” had it been able to reply. I felt myself wither away in my seat, listening to my teacher read out examples of top-band assessment responses. 

Surprisingly…

Surprisingly, they all kinda sucked.

I waited…

I waited, mourning the passing seconds as I analysed the comparison of Plath and Hughes’ colour symbolism left written on the whiteboard.

I resonated…

I resonated with Sylvia’s interpretation of white: “hospital and death”.

Hearing about these ideals…

Hearing about these ideals of successful writing made me feel like one of those miserable bay leaves thrown into a pot. What was I even doing there if I supposedly didn’t add any flavour? 

I was tired…

I was tired of being surrounded by all these impressions of what was good enough and what wasn’t. I endured sitting there, listening to all this drivel: AI, dyslexic poems, and dog-made oil paintings. I kept asking myself, “Why don’t you believe these are good enough?” 

Good…

Good question.

I don’t…

I don’t know.

It’s exhausting…

It’s exhausting when the shallowest image you carry of yourself is perfection. I don’t say this because I’m egotistical (perhaps I am), but because I’m trapped. I’d like to know that I’m someone who loves introspection, my alone-time, or the expressiveness of the arts. But no.

First, I am…

First, I am “perfect”. Then, I am me.

Writing about all my achievements…

Writing about all my achievements feels like I’m wringing out these shiny tokens of how excellent I am. But if I’m ever to be clear on one thing, it’s that these shiny tokens will never feel worth the display. I try my best to be humble (against the inevitable God complex every teenager has), because after all this time I’d rather see myself as ‘normal’ than this constructed ideal of a student, daughter, or athlete.

Yet…

Yet all I have is a label.

Sitting by myself…

Sitting by myself at Oliver Brown with my coffee long turned cold and my writing staring back at me through the screen of my computer, it’s easy to understand that nobody here knows who I am. They don’t know how much I appreciate my mother’s garlic pasta. Neither are they worried about who they’d amount to if the heat death of the universe happened tomorrow. 

But…

But what do I know?

When we’re young…

When we’re young, we’re malleable. Growing up surrounded by all these carefully curated versions of success, we can’t help but search for our place among them. It’s sad to think that some people out there are still trying to find their reflection in the polished surfaces of trophies. It’s also worse to know that I am one of them - although I’ve realised the shine of oiled-up spaghetti was also a good place to look.

When you struggle…

When you struggle to make yourself known through every victory and moment of excellence, by the time you have a character to present, it feels less like you and more like a summary of your achievements. But if all you have is plaques and applause to tell you who you are, then what happens when they’re gone?

We spend so much…

We spend so much time trying to follow our own myths of greatness that we often forget that enough is what we are, and not what we have to be. We rip out so much of ourselves to the point where we go bankrupt by trying. 

The smell of oil…

The smell of oil and the feel of fresh-washed, warm cutlery in my hands make me hope that one day I’ll be on par with the appreciation I have for garlic pasta. That it would be enough if someone sat with my existence, enjoying the company, instead of critiquing every part of me that’s too peppered, or too bland, or overcooked. There is a quiet chance that I can be the chosen bay leaf that finally adds to a dish, rather than something that was only ever thrown in just because the recipe said so.

Maybe one day…

Maybe one day we’ll realise that medals can’t measure what matters in the same way good pasta does. We’ll find the world will keep spinning whether or not “perfect” comes first on the menu of who we are.

So if the world…

So if the world was still ending tomorrow, I’d still want garlic pasta - not because it’s perfect, but because it’s mine.

And maybe…

And maybe that’s enough.

Some things…

Some things are allowed to be worthwhile simply because we love them.