Professional I always want to be.
But what does ‘professional’ mean exactly?
Recently, I find myself not so professional. I mean in term of business. I’ve got my job, a professional career (it’s meant to be professional, not that I have to be, though). However, it’s not that professional in my definition. It’s more materialism, more objective. When it comes to professional, I think of business people; economics, medical field, politics, and every field which needs competent and liable appearance. These people will walk in the outside world with such self-assertive confidence which I never have. Sometimes they almost feel they’re condescending.
As I hadn’t studied in those fields (I didn’t regret it. OK, maybe just a little), I happen to think if that has influenced what I become today. Of course, it is. If I had studied Accounting like my mother and big sister, I would definitely not have learnt the art of being impecunious independence as I am today. Or if I had studied Law as my mother had hopefully suggested, I would have been more eloquent. Or if I had studied Engineering as peer general trend at the time, I would have known how to have my inconsiderate laptop work. However, there were reasons why I did not take those courses.
The first reason happened since I was the sixth grader.
Can you believe that these symbolic significance of numeral and unidentified alphanumeric codes are for sixth graders? They are only eleven. I was only eleven! I was busy trying to survive peer pressure and learn how to live than comprehend these numerical force. And as if that’s not enough, look at the answer, 2+1=3!? Great, I learnt that in kindergarten, using my fingers and toes and friends’ head. What the necessity of complicating things? No wonder why I hated mathematics and algebra and could not force myself to learn it in university.
Note: I used to be like this in Physics class in high school, except that the teacher wrote ‘R.I.P.’ back on the paper with a meekly huge red zero under it.
Another rationale was the most overwhelming. It happened when I was senior in high school.
Can you imagine ‘things’ which are able to silence all twenty of the most boisterous and hyperactive teenage girls (I was in private girls’ school)? It was when the school held a tour to a medical institute in order to let us see what a medical student has to learn and inspire us. The consequence was counterproductive, at least for me. I saw all the horror for a life time in one particular day. There were unborn children (and never been born, unfortunately) arranged in every week of ages for us to see the development. I decided to leave it to the mother in duty. There were also bodies which each had been exhibited all the muscle tissues, both smooth and skeletal, internal organs, bits of skeletons, blood vessels, arteries, every part of brain (cut into pieces to see what inside was), every part of heart (same as brain), and every core and detail of human organism. There were human bodies with diseases. There was even a body which was not a body, but the literally practical nerves in a body been meticulously peeled out and injected the colors to see all the threads thoroughly. It was as if every eye and brain and cell were intensely staring at you, as if thousands of tiny needles were prickling your nerves. I appreciated the painstaking detail, though.
I felt as if my remained childhood innocence had been cruelly harassed when we entered the ‘objects’ section. It was worse than looking at those soulless bodies and none-bodies. It was the pain of memories they represented. The pain of how inhuman human was capable of doing to each other. The pain of innocence such as the little boy who had hidden in a large jar when there was fire. The jar was there, carrying the memory of the boy. And there was the real serial killer’s body over eight or nine decades ago. He had been small. Even though his body shrank from the process of stuffing, I could see he had not been a big man. How could he chop people alive and eat their guts?
When I got out of the heartbreaking building to the world of the living, the unsettling reminiscence was still knocking in the back of my head. I saw people as the merely containers of souls and cells, cutting the right nerve or vessel in their brains and they were gone for good, once and for all. I have NEVER thought of learning to be a doctor again.
That’s so overwhelming. Although I liked Biology, I found the plants’ cells were much more lovable than human and animals’ organs. And although I did well in Chemistry and was the creme de la creme in my class, I hated it. So what’s left? Ahh, art and languages, my inner supports! After those tragic catastrophe, what would soothe me best except a good piece of literature or a gentle art work or even a tinkling music? It reminds us how beautiful people’s minds still are. It reminds us human is not slicing other people all the time. Still, art and those medical investigation relate somehow. I cannot help wondering that doctors might be good artists, considering they know all the detail of bodies like that 😛
However, if I chose another way of life or another more professional way, I would not be the person I am today. I might have learnt to be a successful person, even a billionaire, but not a happy person. A busy bee I might have been but I also might have ended up finding no peace and committing kind of suicide by relentlessly banging my head on the wall with mind-numbing boredom eventually. That’s not good for me and people around me, so I guess what comes out now is already the best solution; being obscure and frivolous, doing things of my own volition, staying low-profile and languid, facing psychological breakdown sometimes. Isn’t that good enough?