when i reached neverland

Lately, I've been contemplating the idea of never.

Wendy once said to Peter Pan, "Never is an awfully long time," which is quite possibly the greatest romanticized understatement of all time. I, of course, understand the idea of "never" intellectually, but I don't think I've ever really had to confront it emotionally (In terms of other people. We'll get to myself and the afterlife later).

While writing my college essays, I (and most likely many other seniors) realized how tremendously privileged my entire life has been. Scratch that; it's not a realization, because I've been uncomfortably aware of this fact in the back of my brain ever since I learned the concept of "poor." But I did have to actually deal with the fact that I am quite spoiled.

Because really, what have I ever wanted for? When have I ever been challenged or denied opportunities? The very fact that my parents immigrated to America, the land of opportunity, means that I was part of the limited number of children born to parents who were brave enough to come to a foreign country because life could be better here.

I'm really freaking lucky.

I've never really dealt with any significantly traumatic loss, my family members are all healthy, and I grew up under the influence of the best parents in the world. Sure, I've dealt with my own turmoil and depression and anxiety, but I've always had help and support throughout it all.

So I am privileged, and I have never been forced to deal with the idea of eternity and the word "never" until I started to contemplate that I really am going to college in a year's time.

Besides burying my head under a pillow and rocking back and forth for hours with the aftereffects of an existential crisis,  I've been giving the idea of eternity a lot of thought. Because technically speaking, eternity for me means the 60+ years that I will (potentially) live after graduation.

What am I going to do? And also, what will I never do?

I read somewhere (Paper Towns by John Green) that the likelihood of a completely unlikely event happening to me is possible at least once in my life. For example, meeting the Queen of England. Getting struck by lightning. Getting into college. But among all of those things, the possibility is that there will be only one thing that actually happens.

What is that thing? And what things will I miss out on?

When I think of everything I would like to do, I know it's not humanly feasible for me to accomplish everything. I can never win a gold medal at the Olympics, I will never be rich, I will never own more than one pet.

I guess the good thing about being a child and still coddled and protected from the realities of NEVER was that eternity felt so...open. As we grow up, there will be more responsibilities and realities of life that place limits on our so-called eternity. The space of that eternity just grows smaller and smaller until there's barely any room for what we'd like to fit in there.

Too little room. The beginning of Never.

Sylvia Plath once wrote about a fig tree. She wrote about her desperation, because the fig tree and its branches represented all of the goals and pathways that she wanted to pursue, whether it was as a high fashion magazine editor or a painter or a writer. Even if she wanted everything, even if she wanted to chop down the entire fig tree and eat every single fig on its branches, she could never do it because it was not possible.

So she couldn't choose. The poem ends with Plath sitting at the base of the metaphorical fig tree, unable to choose which fig she wanted to eat, and then having those figs dry up one by one, until they all fall dead to the ground.

I could very well get stuck with this idea of never. I could start despairing that my potential and my dreams might be limitless, but reality is not.

But at the end of the day, I think I refuse to be like the girl at the base of the tree. I refuse to be stuck there, so that I can't even eat one fig. I'll have my one fig, if that's all the world will give me, and dammit, I'll work like there's no tomorrow, so that I can have another fig. And then another. And then another.

Maybe some will fall to the ground, dried and withered. But I'll still have had my share of figs.