I am a weird person. I have always complained about the lack of a generation gap between my parents and I. From the genesis of my memory, I have been a strictly disciplined person (at least I think so to myself) and there is no fantasizing of college pranks, party-animals, or getting drunk on the street like some of the people around me do. Furthermore I have eschewed from computer games for a while also, not in a stoic way, but rather voluntarily since I could no longer indulge myself in an activity that seems remotely connected with my future. I recognize the danger of such attitude towards life: in a serepetitious way, the long suppressed lassitude has sneaked into my subliminal comport and cognizance, to the extent that I have cleverly ensconced it deeply under the surface and become incalcitrant in expelling it from my age-inured soul.
As I cruised on my month-long vacation with my father, I gradually come to realize that a perhaps unavoidable way out of my current predicament is to stop complaining about the lack of the aforementioned generation gap. A first move was initiated when my father passed the following aphorism from a friend of his: whatever you do, don’t be stupefied by its apparent difficulty and insurmountability; instead be patient and work slowly, but consistently without consciously thinking about the futility. Soon people will behold you in awe for the impossibility you have accumulated.
The significance of the previous statement was particularly conspicuous after I had a summer of defeatism in various mathematics programs I attended. There was a sense of overwhelming information and directions that not only befuddled my mind, but further boggled my purpose. The subsequent self-organized drill on GRE further aggravated my listlessness, especially after repeated proof of my verbal ineptitude during high school.
Although I have recovered a bit from a conscious observation of the above work ethic per se, there is still other things I need to learn from my parents’ generation. Many of the witticisms are concealed behind apparent lack of modern brush-up, or fashionable verbiage. But that’s yet one more skill to be grasped: to discern the utile from the fluffy garbage, as I should have learned from the very American society.