Metamorphoses

To those who may feel disheartened by what I have to say, I offer no apology.

I was handed a pen,
At an early age,
They wished me to fly,
To reach a high place.

Then, from a height,
I dropped their faith,
I now celebrate,
With them, their mistake.

Early Age

From my earliest years, my mother poured herself into her firstborn, treating me with love and pride. She endeavored to embody the ideal of motherhood to set an example for her younger siblings and cousins. I was the apple of her eye, the early talker, and the center of attention in social gatherings. She did everything in her limited power to see me succeed, and each milestone was as much mine as it was hers. My father, on the other hand, focused on other goals. As the breadwinner and workaholic who lived overseas, he scarcely had time for us. In return, he ensured we had a nice place to live and nice things to wear. A hard man, he served the role of the chief disciplinarian and offered an occasional word of advice when we saw him. They embodied two equal and opposite Jungian archetypes: Mother as comfort, attachment, and nurture; Father as action, control, and distance. And so, in this balance, I had what could be called an average childhood — one grounded in a fundamental symmetry between oneness and separation.

Gifts

My mother loved books. She had a small library in the attic, shelves lined with paperbacks bought on sale. Her photographic memory allowed her to quote a variety of authors in casual conversation. At bedtime, she read the classics to my brother and me, taking her time to explain the metaphors and nuances in the language. Any skill I have with words can be traced back to this early conditioning.

In those days, schools functioned like assembly lines: tables, formulas, definitions, problem sets, and brute facts were meant to be memorized and regurgitated without question. Had I inherited my mother’s photographic memory, many well-trodden paths of scholarship would have opened to me — I might have easily become a historian, an economist, a pharmacist, or some other cookie-cutter. But my memory was fragmented. To retain any sequence of facts, I was compelled to find patterns that linked them. With limited resources for self-study, I was often caught between two states — endlessly frustrated by the tedium of rote learning or slowed by my curiosity.

My weakness became both my hallmark and my path to growth. I learned to slow down teachers with unanswerable questions, challenging authority through persistent inquiry. I was often accused of interrupting the classroom — which was true — and my mother was frequently summoned to the principal’s office. Unable to reason through arguments, they would tell me to ‘shut up and calculate’ (or some equivalent idiom). Though the discussion ended, these encounters only confirmed that I was surrounded by hollow authority — masking insecurity with dogma and unquestioning allegiance to groupthink. Yet, as a practical matter, I could see the utility of many useful fictions. These small rebellions became my training ground, a game that tested how far I could go and whether I could pull back just in time.

Metamorphosis and Acceptance

In my adult life, I grew increasingly unapologetic in my disdain for intellectualism, calling out every pretense, every empty platitude, and every superficial tradition. All those who carried the weight of convention on their shoulders — family, friends, teachers — moved away, exhausted by my iconoclasm. Now alone and freed of external dogma, I turned my gaze inward to continue the game of Socratic inquiry with myself. In normal circumstances, this had the potential to be a self-destructive step. However, I was now a skilled player of the game. I knew how to go up to the cliff, look into the abyss, and return.

Today, those who were once close to me might feel like they have made a mistake somewhere along the way or that I have lost mine. To some, I have become an eccentric and intolerable man. They cannot understand much of what I say, although they try to humor me occasionally. I am, at best, the bad apple and, at worst, a crackpot. But I celebrate their mistakes and my own, for the present is exactly as I would have wished. A better script could not have been written, and I am sure, in time, our paths will cross again.