Paint Me Amarillo

I vividly still remember things. They appear on my mind randomly like how the universe came to be with a single bang! I dreamt of things that I thought I'd forgotten; memories too unassuming to keep. Like when I saw my grandfather stacking up his old, dusty almanacs on our old oakwood chiffonier. It was in our house back in the Philippines. He used to stack his books alphabetically, and when he'd get to the letter A, he'd pick up this small book called "A Philosopher's Bible" first and read the quote on its cover: No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man. He was the grandmaster of worldly knowledge to me, my grandpa. He was smart and witty in several ways that my mom would often have a hard time convincing him to go out once in a while. But he was fond of Heraclitus. He loved the idea of change; its passivity and aggression at the same time, and the way it takes and gets taken away. For him, change is everything, yet ironically, he hated changing his ways. When he died, my mom decided it was time to let go of everything in the Philippines. I used to think flying so far away would mean leaving my emotions behind too; pain, grief, suppression. For a child, it was too heavy, like Atlas carrying the world kind of heavy. Then, when it all came to it and I was finally in a different place, something washed away inside me. I don't know what it was, but all I could ever think of was how good the change would be for me, for us. I'd never settle for less, I'd watch over the ebb and flow of change, I'd subdue what needed to be subdued. Just as the thunder roared, I jolted awake. Everything was still a blur, but despite the distortion in the surroundings, I knew everything wasn't just a nightmare. I made out the space, dim yet familiar, the ward I was in was expansive, but it still made me feel like I was compressed in a sarcophagus. The thunder and lightning made it worse. Every clap was maximal, like a thud to my core. No one was there, not even the ghost of my past. No one, not a shadow. I kept still because I figured I had no choice. I was crippled. I wished there had been a sign. I prayed for them, maybe even when I was asleep, but I knew I had been asleep for a long time. My subconscious tells me I've been through a lot. I wanted a sign of change, perhaps this was it. I couldn't even fathom the emotions I had as I recalled what I dreamt. I couldn't cry out to Grandpa, nor could I to Heraclitus. The night was deep and the thunder knew not to tune down. As much as I hoped I'd suddenly found the rain melodious, I just couldn't go back to sleep anymore. I had enough of it. As hours ticked by, I found myself still until the sun cast a soft orange hue on my room. It was the most drastic and beautiful thing after the dreary night. I never thought I'd find the sun so comforting after a night so dire. I looked over the foot of my bed and saw my mom napping on a small couch. I didn't notice her when she came in. Heck, I barely noticed things until the sun illuminated the entire place. A few more moments passed by and suddenly, a doctor was talking to me, my mom beside her. I never had the chance to be astonished or confused about how much time passed and how many things changed in what seemed like a few minutes to me. But here they were, the doctor speaking to me in a cold voice. "Do you remember who you are?" The question hit me like a barrage of concrete. Was I in such bad shape? I could barely croak so I succumbed to a few breathy whispers of indiscernible yeses. Until, I just blinked twice, tears streaming down my face after the second blink. My mom began sobbing too as she picked up my hand, caressing it softly with her thumb. I likened the back-and-forth motion of her thumb against my skin to the pendulum clock we once had at home. "I'm Dr. Erin Glass, what's your name, can you whisper it out for me?" she asked. If I could give something, I would. This was not like some candy I could give away that easily. For some reason, it was painful to whisper out my name whilst giving it my all. I couldn't even decipher whether or not I had satisfactorily muttered my name or if she even caught it. She did. "Lukas, do you know where you are?" I did, so I blinked. "Do you know what happened?" I didn't. Until I woke up, I felt like I was floating. Nothing made sense to me, it was like a fever dream that went on and on. When Dr. Glass began explaining how I was in a car accident, my mind buzzed off somewhere. I was in high school. It was my senior year, the year I had applied to the Health Sciences program at Stanford. It was hard to get into Stanford, so I had to achieve high SAT scores and get an essay done. I also had to file my application and at that time, I submitted a portfolio of mine already to other universities, but I really ached for this college. It was June 8th of 2018 when I received an email from them. I recall it had been a night like last night; thunderclap and all. I strangely called out to mom that night, forgetting she had work until the late hours. As I opened the email, my eyes immediately panned over to the words written in bold type CONGRATULATIONS! IT IS MY PLEASURE TO OFFER YOU ADMISSION TO STANFORD'S CLASS OF 2018! I had no one to cheer with. So I called my mom but the line went into voicemail. "I got into Stanford, Mom! I got in!" I said in the most mirthful voice I could muster. But it wasn't joy that filled me up on such a momentous enterprise, it was emptiness like I was so small and the house around me grew big tenfold. I felt small. I skimmed through the letter, only taking note of the important dates in bold letters and bullets. But I caught wind of stuff like Change the World and Place like home. Home wasn't a place for me back then, it wasn't anywhere. Until I understood that maybe we aren't supposed to have homes, maybe we're supposed to go and change places, live somewhere new, and get to a new place someday. We take part in this process until we can no longer walk or move and we settle down finally as we take our final breaths. What would be home for me if dad never left? I trailed my eyes toward Dr. Glass' retreating figure as I allowed the few final moments of the morning dive into a rather barren noon. I watched as my mom walked out with her, muttering things as she nodded in confirmation. I also looked at the ceiling and its white paint. There were stains on it and for a minute I imagined they were the fabric of outer space and I was a deity looking at it inferiorly. Slit-like cracks were also littered across the surface and I imagined they looked like space fissures or asteroids. I imagined sweet nothings until I eventually fell asleep, confirming one thing and one thing only. This is not the same river, and I am not the same man.