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I started crying. My lip contorted upwards and I could feel water pressure behind my eyes. I was going to bawl, the type of tears that would send someone half my age to their mother, but I had no one to kiss my cheek and attempt to make my fears dissipate. I turned to look on at my abandoned room, natural light slitting through the one small window, still harsh enough to overwash all colors. Wanting to hid even more, to find a sanctum even more remote than a locked second floor dorm room, on a hill, surrounded by a minuscule town, I bounded onto my bed and grabbed pillow, forcing it down over my lips to silence the start and go of my sobs.
For the proceeding five minutes I cried, as loudly as possible, uncaring about the percentage of ruckus that would escape and cause discernment among my neighbors. I hadn't managed to hit the crying threshold since my uncertainties over my mom's cancer had eaten away at my psyche. Now a build-up of random events had pushed me to the edge again. It felt good. "There's something I'm not getting in this life", was my mid-cry epiphany as I sat up and found myself looking out the window. Music was still pouring out of the Zune. I had been worried that it was going to effect my ability to cry, but Stevie Wonder's "I Was Made to Love Her" saw me keep up a constant front of tears. Still, when Aerodynamic came on, I felt motivated to act. You can't feel sorry for yousrself while listening to a raging guitar solo, it's just too hard. Planning an action that would make me a force to be reckoned with, I pulled on a running outfit and shamelessly peaced out of east hall and down the hill as my shorts ran up becoming obnoxiously, well, short.
The town of Hamilton is no stranger to traffic. Hundreds of trucks (maybe) pass through on 12B to get to more populous locals. Yet today seemed to be the first time during my experience that every vehicle on 12B wanted to stay in town. My heart was heaving, lungs collapsing, when I got to my car. I felt like a fool for sprinting in daylight hours, but I had a shameful desire to see the Dalai Lama. continue
There'd be no weaseling my way into enlightenment this time. I would say that in life, I never do things right, but in some circumstances, I am given repetitive chances until I get what I want. I watched my feet as I traversed back to the village square where my car was parked. Somehow I had imagined my bookstore encounter differently. There would've been a lot of tears but I would've been walking away with a ticket in my hand. Light glinted off cars into my eyes, and had I a gun, I probably would've gone "The Stranger" on someone's ass. Alas, I knew nothing about guns, except I hated them, and my mental anguish was slowly righting itself. Sorry Camus. What was the difference really, between sitting in a stadium and physically seeing the Lama or sitting in my room watching him mumble on my computer? With life the way it could be these days, there really wasn't much difference between video chatting a friend or sitting with them in a room, and if I had to take that approach to the Dalai Lama, so be it.
My heart still sunk, and my mind was still painfully active, attempting to find some solace in maybe receiving an extra ticket, or being able to barter with someone up the hill. But clearly I was running out of options. continue
The rats were what allowed me to accept my circumstances. They weren't seeking enlightenment, they were just trying to live, which for them, probably had as many innate rules as any religion. Life was all, all that mattered, everything. The Dalai Lama was historical, but eventually this history would mean nothing. And the meaning I found in my life should be the results of my own endeavours. As for happiness, even in this small smelly room there were tidbits of joy, a rat wrapping its tail around your wrist in a backwards handshake, the lab assistant who spent an unknown amount of time in the basement and looked herself a bit like a mouse in a pastel scrub.
Why hadn't I just kept the ticket in my mailbox? But no sense beating yourself over what-ifs. My mailbox contained a singular newsweek magazine, and I dreaded the thought that mention of his holiness would be in this edition's print. Back outside the sun made me sweat, and I desperately wanted to change clothes once more. But Uday was handing out orange bands. I was short with him as he explained what they were for. "I already know. I know. I know. Uday," a long pause for dramatic effect, "I lost my Dalai Lama Ticket".
"Oh girl. Oh wait, dude, Zunaira has a ticket but she's not going, go get hers," he said in his lilting urdu-accent. At first I was certain he was joking, but he was serious, and I trusted him. "I totally want to have sex with you, in the least physical sense possible" I gushed, smiling broadly, power walking back to my dorm to get the object of my 24 odd hour quest. I spotted Kevin, he was smiling at me. I did a double take and screamed out of a high energy anxiety. He smiled harder. He probably wasn't going to the Dalai Lama. Crazy fucker. continue
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