Tenth Year

I. Allegro

I do not mean to be a hated person. I have thick skin. There are those whom I have set up for failure. I will subvert expectations.

In public, I pretend not to notice my pupil. I look busy. I am busy. I look like I am enjoying myself as the head of the Conservatory. I am enjoying myself. But in private, and later in the evenings, when I am too exhausted to actually sleep, I revisit the emails that my pupil has been sending me, to which I have yet to reply. For instance, just last month, my pupil asked me for a letter of recommendation. It was for a fellowship, one that I myself had been awarded in years past. It got me thinking about everything I had starting out, and what I have ended up with now, and ultimately, I found that I could not bring myself to respond. I could not bring myself to pay it forward. A couple of days later, my pupil wrote me again, and on the convening days, they’d asked for an appointment to see me during my office hours, each request more desperate than the one before, even going so far as to mark their emails URGENT until this very evening at the stroke of midnight when the deadline for their application has passed—the hour for which I have waited up.

I sigh. I turn off my light and head to bed. It may sound harsh, but such things must be done. If I have ever had some power to wield, I must make use of it when I can. This is because I do not have as much influence as people think. For one, I might be able to help someone get to where they’re already headed a little faster. Or I can send them down a labyrinth of detours. That is really the extent of it. What I mean is, what I do or don’t do is only temporary. And thus, I think that such ploys are not entirely terrible. Only a little inconvenient.

My pupil is shy and soft-spoken. They are not the most put-together in their year—which does count for something—a fact exacerbated by their self-conscious and uneasy disposition. They aren’t someone people might believe in. At the same time, my pupil is someone who is easy to toy with and who almost asks for it in their demeanor through their inarticulate, short sentences and their nervous laughter. Though I have to admit, they do have some talent (perhaps a little more than I’d like for my comfort), as they would not be here at the Conservatory if that weren’t the case. In short, they have a gift. Only I have become used to one too many young persons in possession of these apparent gifts, so such a thing isn’t that extraordinary; quite the contrary, for I am often surrounded by more talent than I know what to do with. I have learned during the course of being a person in charge that a phenomenon like talent plays only a small role in a composer’s success. Needless to say, the study of music composition is a complicated and lonely process, akin to being stranded at sea and not knowing when one will rediscover a thriving land—if ever. Only some of my pupil’s ingenuity frightens me. It is as if they finish my sentences. More so, it is as if they finish my musical thoughts. What disturbs me most is when they think that they are a singularity, the only one in possession of the gift, which somehow strengthens the gift. And worse, the exception to the rule, which somehow strengthens the exception.

I know a little of my pupil’s life story, but not because we had coffee and they confided in me—rather, I had gone over their application to the Conservatory. Therefore, I know of their limitations, that they came to the study of music-making later, and that they do not have ties to parents who are supportive of their endeavor. Nor do they come from money, which is a shame, for if I am to highlight the realities of the profession, having the finances and connections are not just assets but necessities for the successful pursuit of a life of music. For the time my pupil spends waiting tables at a restaurant or giving piano lessons to children at an elementary school, they could be fine-tuning their ear, their music, their compositions. No doubt they would rather be composing, and yet, they aren’t. This is how I know that they will eventually fall behind the pack, and—if it hasn’t happened already—I know that I can be a catalyst for this by inundating them with duties and responsibilities and endless red tape. And no matter how much potential they might seem to possess at this very moment, it will count for nothing later on because potential is like the blood of a dead person: Nothing dries faster.

On top of that, it is my intention that being in the middle of all the noise will only make it more difficult for my pupil to compose, make them lose some of their ideas so that they might end up paying less attention to the nuances of the inner ear—that place of creation. Make them a little less and less aware of the downbeat of the sequence of a piano sonata. Or the harmonic progression of a string quartet. Perhaps this is a good thing—a break to clear their head. At least this is what they have told themselves. And I agree with them. Or I agree for them.

And yet, for all their hang-ups, all their inhibitions, my pupil admittedly possesses quite a proficiency in theory and sight-singing and Renaissance counterpoint. Of course, it isn’t that I am jealous of my pupil; for during the past ten years as the head of the Conservatory, I have seen many esteemed individuals pass through its doors, many of whom have even gone on to great acclaim, winning Grammy Awards and other notable prizes for music composition, though not for their timelessness. Instead for their timeliness—those who have been of the moment and have gone away shortly thereafter. In ten years, I understand the trajectory of hype. The seasonal change of buzz. And there will always be far more who have fallen into the abyss of nothingness. The collateral damage of our program, so to speak. Our librarian, for example, who was once a composition student themselves, and whose efforts I gingerly redirected. And the person who works the front desk who was once another aspiring composer, though they have not held pen to staff paper in some time, nor do I encourage them to. What I mean is, sometimes things just aren’t in the cards. But being in the proximity of the life is enough of a life.

However, what further disturbs me about my pupil is the possibility of what they might produce, specifically because they are toying with an idea that is not so far from one that I have been pondering myself—my Second Symphony. This is only complicated by my pupil’s poor timing, for they have entered my life at a moment when I’ve been longing to find a way to spend more time on my own music, which I admit is not entirely their fault. Ten years have made me apprehensive, protective of my time and place in the music world. And then here they are, exploring the very same terrain that I have envisioned and, to some extent, have been saving up for myself. Only when I view the work that my pupil has submitted for their lessons (those that I haven’t cancelled at the last minute) can I see that they are not doing justice to the material—at least, not yet. But they are close. I’d like to think that in the most ideal of circumstances, and for the sake of great art, one must know when to step aside. Wasn’t it said that the master teacher Andrea del Verrocchio did just that? Abandoned painting altogether when setting eyes upon the work of his own pupil, the artist, Leonardo da Vinci? This, according to the art historian Giorgio Vasari, in The Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects, 1568. Nevertheless, even though I might not yet have the ability to do such a thing, I keep this truth a secret.

I comfort myself. I rationalize. I know that my pupil is still young and lacks the maturity and emotional dexterity to wrap themselves around the work necessary for this kind of musicianship. Like the master composer (to some), Sergei Rachmaninoff, once said, “Music is enough for a lifetime, but a lifetime is not enough for music.” But then I start to worry again because I can’t help but wonder: Will my pupil one day stumble upon greatness? Perhaps ten or so years down the line? So much of this whole business of music composition is also accidental. That is the other part of it. Then I remind myself that strokes of genius are harder to come by, and more often than not, one never gets to it at all.

It is unfortunate that so many of my tasks throughout the year involve strategic planning for the Conservatory’s future, the hope that my affluent pupils will go on to become benefactors of the Conservatory, which many of them do—especially when they are done composing music and living off an inheritance. This is necessary for the institution to survive and to thrive. No matter how elite a space, the truth is that the audience for our kind of music shrinks by the day. And though the equation ideally should be talent + hard work = success, there is an inevitable loophole to that formula, and that is, again, whom one knows. Otherwise, I too wouldn’t be where I am today. Nepotism is the fast track not of life, but of a livelihood.

Now that it is my tenth year as the head of the Conservatory, I am accustomed to being the face of the institution. Time has slowly altered that face too. It has given it countless tears and the deepest of canyons. An autumn has settled in. If I am to be honest, I have been feeling the wear and tear of my expended and lackluster and unproductive decade. All this is to say, time has not yet killed off my ambition, not totally. Rather, it has only fueled that youthful drive—the need to take such artistic pursuits seriously. In hindsight, I have often wished that I had spent more time composing the kind of music that I have not yet had the wherewithal to write down. Music such as my Second Symphony, for instance, the beginnings of which have been lingering at the forefront of my mind like a fog, just waiting for me to penetrate and give it the cohesion and solidity and tangibility that it deserves. Because of my responsibilities as both a teacher and an administrator, the opportunity to inhabit that internal world of strings and percussion and horns and woodwinds—and pull from it a masterpiece of epic proportions to call my very own—has thus far eluded me. Having been a composer for almost all my life, bureaucratic nonsense and administrative duties don’t come easily to me. The meet and greets, the schmoozing at parties—not to mention the endless recitals and concerts that I am obligated to attend only drain me to smithereens, and by midday, I am almost entirely spent.

It all leaves me somewhat frazzled and awkward and discombobulated. Thankfully, the company that surrounds me is like a wall, as I am constantly flanked by those who are more eloquent and are well-versed in the art of taking up my time, who tell me all that I want to hear. I allow them to do so, as these are the types of people with a lifetime’s worth of advantages, which others confuse for success, and are afraid to disappoint. Additionally, I have taken up origami, and during concerts and various lectures, I can push back against the anxiety of having to sit in the front row and be watched by curious and prying eyes by turning my thoughts instead toward folding intricate paper cranes—a meditative rebellion against all the noise and anticipation. At lectures and masterclasses, while others might fidget or strain to appear engaged, my hands are busy transforming squares of paper into delicate shapes. I lose myself in the precise folds, the crisp creases, the geometry blooming in my hands. Each crane, each intricate flower, each star, becomes a tiny act of defiance against the pressures around me, not to conform, but to surprise. The smooth texture of the paper is a grounding contrast to the pulsating energy of the crowd, almost metronomic in its regularity. It is a meditation in motion too, a portable sanctuary, transforming anxiety into art, one fold at a time, one tuck, one collapse. Sometimes, I even leave my creations behind, little paper blessings left on seats or stuffed into programs, hoping to share a moment of quiet beauty with someone else.

One day, during another reception at the home of a benefactor on East 77th Street, an influential patron approaches me with an intriguing proposition: “I’m flattered,” I begin, the words almost a happy sigh. Only, I’ve misconstrued what they are saying. They do not wish to commission my work. Instead, they offer me the position of judge for a new music composition commission for the Philharmonic. “You will get to judge who will be the future of American music,” they say, their eyes alight with a mixture of respect and expectation.

I nod slowly, the true weight of the offer settling upon me. It is a tempting position, one that would still grant me considerable influence and prestige. But then they add that the judging will be anonymous. A part of me bristles at the thought. I had indeed agreed in haste. I do not want merely to be the judge of who will be the future of American music; I want to be the future of American music. The realization hangs heavy in the air, a battle waged within my own conflicted heart.

Strategically, I have decided to forgo many great talents over the years and I have resolved, instead, to promote actively those who I know will never eclipse me, in order to bide my time, to premeditate, one fold after another, so to speak. After all, many mediocre composers have gone on to score for films because, on some level, we all know that most of the public is barely listening, and doesn’t have the ear to stomach another Beethoven. It doesn’t need another Brahms or Shostakovich. Clara Schumann, Mendelssohn, Glass, Jon Batiste. For though these great minds are mortal, and many are already gone too, their music remains eternal, timeless. Such nuanced skill is for those in the know, and in this day and age, the lack of clarity and the misunderstanding that have come to govern the mechanisms and machinations of our daily human interactions can easily cause one to be muted. Or, I should say, numbed.

II. Adagio

On behalf of the anniversary of my tenth year as head of the Conservatory, my students insist on throwing me a party. It is not exactly a surprise. As I’ve said, I am a busy person, and the organizers of the event were required to confirm my availability. The celebration is not at the ritzy Italian restaurant downtown that I had hoped for but is instead a potluck at the house of one of my students all the way out in the country. The student’s name is B, and they are someone of modest talent but more so someone of good spirits and optimism. One of their parents is a composer as well. The other parent, a renowned cellist. Most importantly, they are donors. Though we are far away from the city, my students are expected to dress up for the occasion. They call it a “black-tie affair” on the invitation. But when I arrive, all decked out, I see that few have actually come dressed to the nines. They do their best—sweaters. At times such as these, the saying really is true: It’s the thought that counts.

No doubt, I realize that I could be working on my Second Symphony, but alas, duty calls. It is a warm afternoon, and it is nearing the end of the semester. I even bring my child along so that they can see how beloved I am, so that they might also gain an understanding of why I haven’t been present as often as I’d like to be—missed baseball games, school trips, birthday parties. I am called to the front of the lawn. One after another, the students raise a toast to me. Other members of the faculty are there who are not the least bit jealous of the attention that I receive. In truth, they do not covet my position. Teaching has already extended them enough. They’d rather compose too.

The rest of the party takes place in the backyard, amid the backdrop of the setting sun, the evergreen trees, which, after a while, start to block out the sunlight. As the shadows slowly flood over the trees and the grass, I listen as people toast me for everything that I’ve done for the Conservatory, from fundraising to distributing scholarships to abolishing the public ranking system of students (though I still keep one in private)…. But more so, they raise toasts in the hopes of what I will do for the program, couched in what I might do for them specifically, seeing them there. They say that I am a good parent, a person of many hats, and that I wear them well.

Over the years, I have learned that students think that they revere me, but in actuality, they know very little about me. And they think that they adore my music, but when I ask them to name one of my operas (I’ve written nine) or one of my violin concertos (I’ve written three), numerous chamber pieces, more often than not, they point to the one symphony that is on YouTube. It is, I suppose, my best-known work, though it isn’t necessarily my best work. In fact, I think that my best work is yet to come. I certainly hope so. Nevertheless, my students will cite a performance at Alice Tully Hall. At the start of each academic year, this video will gain about a hundred or so views, roughly equal to the number of students admitted.

That night, I secure math tutoring and figure-skating lessons for my child. I get the name of someone who wants me to stay at their home in Vienna. One of my students knows of a music magazine that is interested in writing a profile on the Conservatory and therefore, on me, and I give them my personal contact info. Another student will lend me their orchestra for a performance of my First Symphony.

After all this time, I have acquired a taste for people trying to win my favor. And instead of feeling a conflicted sense of guilt and resentment about it, I have learned how to savor the sweetness of an overly generous compliment and to swallow the entire delicacy of a well-tailored speech. “It’s too much, far too much,” I’ll say to the round of applause. “Please, stop.” It is a balance. No, a balancing act.

I raise my glass and drink the champagne that my students have brought for the occasion. By then, the sun has already set. It’s colder; a few of the guests have moved inside. I can see the glow of the light from the living room, bookshelves filled with scores, a piano, and other instruments left on the ground like dead bodies. I notice that it is not the best of champagnes that I am drinking. Because most of my students are purposely trying to see if they can survive on the stipend that they receive from the Conservatory, knowing they already have a safety net. But at that moment, I can almost swear that the drink tastes like Dom Pérignon. I have numerous bottles of Dom Pérignon at home anyway.

I sample the buffet. There is potato salad and macaroni and cheese and hot dogs and burgers and Brussels sprouts and rice and beans and curry chicken. Someone has even thought to make a pavlova, knowing that it is my favorite. I watch as my child stuffs their face with the pastries, even though I have tried to keep an eye on the number of cookies that they eat. I already know that they will be unable to sleep later, so when we get home, I have it in mind that I will make them practice the piano for another hour or so. Only when I taste the sweetness of the pavlova, I change my mind and decide that I won’t.

The night is a success. We laugh, we cry. I pretend to cry.

I take a seat at the center of the room as students come up to me individually, and I grant them an audience. They ask me for favor after favor. They ask me for advice, they ask me for opportunities, for letters of recommendations to festivals, to study with other renowned composers—recommendations to fellowships. I say, “Yes, yes, yes.” And so long as I know that I am being used, why not make the most of the transaction? More lessons for my child. More opportunities for me.

And then I am crying for real.

It doesn’t take long for me to notice that my pupil is not there. At first, a part of me only laughs a little to myself. Then another part of me stiffens. I realize that they would know that I would notice and that others would as well. The silence is deafening. Or absent, rather. The silence is absent. And there is a fermata over that absence, a prolongation of disquiet. This only leads to a murmuring that reverberates throughout the crowd like an overtone; people’s attention turned slightly elsewhere rather than entirely on my tenth year. My pupil’s usual group of friends is here without them, and when I ask them where they think my pupil might be, they only shrug. I can’t help but think that, in such a program like our Conservatory, people might start to wonder, and if they wonder too much, will it only implicate me? Will they say that I have done my pupil in? Will people say that I am threatened so much by my pupil that they would dare turn their back on me? Have I unknowingly begun to tighten the screws of my own undoing? Or do I only protest too much?

At home, I change my mind once more. I tell my child to practice the piano. They say, “I’m sleepy.” They beg for sleep.

“But people won’t like you if you don’t play well.” I know that I am lying here, but some lies are necessary.

Moments later, I hear the child close the door to their room. Then a sad and half-hearted rendition of the D minor Bach concerto begins to unfurl. This perturbs me all the more because I know that they are not practicing something new but only blindly going over something that they already know by heart. So I knock on their door and tell them to look at the Liszt instead. I then hear a shuffling of papers, followed by the string of notes that I instantly recognize to be the opening of the “Transcendental” Étude No. 5, “Feux Follets,” and then the stop and start of the repetition of a phrase until it is nearly perfect. I exhale. It is relief that I feel. Such things are for my offspring’s own benefit. I don’t care if they grow up to hate me. Perhaps their own child will thank them one day, and in that moment, the heavens will align like a perfect authentic cadence. I do not let my child watch television unless it is in a foreign language. Music, too, is not so unlike a foreign language. What I mean is, someone so young doesn’t yet know how to make the most of their time, especially before it’s gone. Hindsight is just another waste of time.

III. Scherzo

Toward the end of the semester, the unthinkable happens—my pupil makes a bold move by trying to publish a critique of my masterclass in the Conservatory Newsletter. The newsletter goes out to our students and alumni, not to mention our precious donors. Before the essay even goes to print, I am notified by the university paper, and when I read what my pupil writes, I’ve had enough. I see that they accuse me of nepotism and favoritism with certain people of privilege and prestige, and I immediately pull the story. In such cases, I don’t fold. It is, in some ways, the opposite of origami. Sabotage must be met with sabotage. After ten years, I have made plenty of allies, and what is more, I have kept my mouth shut regarding the secrets of my enemies, so therefore, when I need to play my hand, I am given the opportunity to play it. And so, I play.

All week, I have fires to put out. The twenty pianos we had ordered six months ago have arrived. The program notes for that month’s concerts have finally been written. I’ve been so busy, but that night, I have dreams of my Second Symphony. I wake up to a full moon, bright and glowing. Then I oversleep in order to chase after those dreams, those conclusions like answers, like holinesses. When I wake once more, I am disheartened. Most of what I’d dreamt has already dissipated. It doesn’t matter. I compose and compose as if I am my former self again, young and full of potential. I almost forget about lunch—with my pupil.

I am late. We meet at a restaurant that I know that my pupil cannot afford—think elegant décor, fine tableware, white tablecloths. I will, of course, bill it to the Conservatory. It is a perk I do not take for granted. At first, I think that they are late as well, but there, already seated in a secluded corner booth, I see my pupil staring blankly down at the menu.

I slide into the seat opposite.

“Have you been here before?” I ask, my tone deceptively casual.

“No, I haven’t.”

“I somehow knew it. And that’s precisely why I chose the place. To give you the chance to try it out, that’s all.” I make it sound like a reminder of what they owe, like I’m talking about the Conservatory. “So what do you think?” I want to see my pupil’s reaction.

“It’s nice?” my pupil says, their voice tinged with a fragile question mark.

“Well, now you’ve had a taste.”

A waiter arrives to fill our glasses with sparkling water, and I ask for lemon. Afterward, I order the steak, rare. A bottle of Bordeaux. My pupil orders nothing more than a simple cup of crab soup. At least it’s crab, I muse, noting their inability to make the most of the moment, a stark contrast to my own refined approach.

“Surely you’d like something more substantial than that,” I prompt. “Have the escargot. The beef tartare. Don’t worry, it’s on me.” I don’t say, “It’s on the Conservatory.”

They shake their head. “No, thank you. I’m not very hungry. I have to rehearse soon.”

“Let’s cut to the chase. I know about your critique of my masterclass.”

“I figured you were going to ask me about that.”

“Well I’ve canceled it. It’s not going to run.”

“What? You canceled me? Because I didn’t agree with you? Can you do that?”

“Why, yes. I know people. And, to be frank, you were the one trying to cancel me, were you not?”

“But I…”

I hold up my hand. Then I present a paper flower, red. “My driver took a wrong turn on my way here. I made it for you.”

“What is this?” my pupil asks, picking it up, the gesture lost on them.

“A reply. Because I know that you were only trying to get my attention. Well, now you have it. So speak.” I prepare myself to pretend to listen.

They are unresponsive at first, my directness no doubt a deterrent. But then they say, “You don’t answer my emails. You’ve been ignoring me. I lost out on my chance at a fellowship.” I think that they will say, “You only help those who can help you.” Instead they say, “Frankly, I’m rather surprised that you asked to see me today.”

I chew my steak slowly, savoring its rich, bloody juices. “Well, I’ve been busy. I am, as you well know, the head of the Conservatory.”

They lean in, their voice dropping to a low, intense register. “Can I ask you an honest question?”

“Please do.”

“You never liked me, did you?”

“Whatever gave you that idea? It is actually you who doesn’t like me.”

“Well, I…” My pupil is again at a loss for words. I think of how so much of music is a premeditative act.

“I noticed you were conspicuously absent from my ten-year anniversary party. Ten years is a milestone, you know. It deserves acknowledgement.”

My pupil sits back. “I had other things to do.”

“Like what?”

“I had a deadline.”

“A deadline?” I cut into another piece of my steak, watching the deep crimson seep from the slice. “Deadline for what?” I can’t help but laugh. “You’ve had your fun. It’s enough. Order a doggy bag and be done with it.”

At first I think that they will not tell me. But then they say it: “A new symphony.”

I all but spit out my wine. “A symphony? And new?”

“Yes, my second, actually.”

“Your second? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”

“And I’ve submitted it to the Philharmonic.”

“Ah, so you have gotten ahead of yourself. And without my looking at it first?” My voice carries a hint of disbelief, a carefully manufactured affront.

“You didn’t have the time, remember?”

The waiter glides to our table to ask how we are doing. I say that we are doing “just splendid,” a clear signal for them to leave us. I ask my pupil to pass the salt. They do so, their movements mechanical. I then take a bite of my steak. Now it’s salty—too salty for me. I can’t take another bite. But I somehow do.

“I hope you’re pleased with what you’ve done,” I say.

“It is my best work.”

“Just like that, huh? Your best work.”

“Yes.”

By now, my pupil is already finished with their soup, leaving them little else to do but nibble on the artisan bread, and I am in no particular rush.

“Well, that sounds to me like a big misunderstanding,” I finally say, after ordering dessert—the pavlova, a familiar, comforting taste.

“Is it?”

Only they know how to push my buttons; they have studied me hard, and learned well. Thankfully, I know how to push back, when I have to most. And before we are done, I offer them a cool, detached benediction: “Then I wish you luck.”

“Do you really?”

I smile the best I can. “Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I am your teacher.”

So much more silence. Then they say, “I think that you have something in your teeth.”

IV. Finale

The music world is but a small world. Indeed, the longer you remain within its confines, the smaller it shrinks, until you yourself, one day, are the shrunken one and next to nothing. And when I am back in my office, I log into the Philharmonic commission’s portal for which I serve as judge. There it is—my pupil’s application. I click on the score—my pupil’s symphony, their “Second Symphony.” I zoom in, scrolling through its pages, each stave meticulously filled with notes that immediately sing. The first movement, a bold allegro, surges with a restless energy, driven by a soaring melody in the violins that seems to climb toward the celestial. The second, the adagio, offers a moment of profound stillness, a plaintive oboe solo weaving a melancholic spell over a bed of hushed strings. I can almost hear the echoes of Mahler in its bittersweet beauty, and before that, Beethoven. Before that, Handel. The ultimate echo of time throughout. The scherzo, a playful whirlwind of pizzicato strings and darting woodwinds, provides a welcome contrast, hinting at a youthful exuberance. And at last, the finale—a triumphant return of the opening theme, transformed and expanded, building to a glorious, cathartic climax. The orchestration—a delicate dance between the strings and woodwinds—is handled with a confidence that belies my pupil’s age. It almost feels like an injustice.

I can’t bear to look any longer. So I look away. But I can still hear the music in my mind’s eye, resonating. It is marvelous—something that might have taken me another ten years or so to write. At the same time, I have witnessed many a miraculous thing such as this throughout my career—or should I say, something remarkably close to it. And what I have learned is that the work need not be miraculous at all. It need only give off the impression of something like it, and it will be enough. This is where I come in. Again, was it not said that the master painter Verrocchio abandoned painting altogether upon witnessing the divine work of his own pupil, Leonardo da Vinci? Yes, so it has been said.

And yet, had I had the opportunity to work with my pupil, I would have sanded down every rough edge, critiqued every unconventional harmony, and polished every phrase until it was indistinguishable from all the countless other pieces of music vying for my attention at the Conservatory. Ultimately, I would have ensured its mediocrity. Its lack of distinction. Its near nonexistence. Needless to say, I am no Verrocchio.

Thankfully, I have other means: I click REJECT. It isn’t the first time that I have closed a door in order to keep one open for me. I think of how I have gotten away with so much in these past ten years. Like I said, I have thick skin.

I take out a piece of origami paper, a square sheet. In no time it becomes the beginnings of another flower. The initial steps usually involve folding the paper in half diagonally and then into a waterbomb base. From there, I shape the petals by folding the corners inward and then outward, creating the desired floral form. Finally, I refine the petals and add details to complete the flower. It is not so unlike biding one’s time in order to strike where it hurts the most. In short, it is not so unlike music composition. After I am done, I leave what I’ve made in the lobby. A part of me thinks, if only I didn’t allow any of this nonsense to cloud my judgement, I’d be able to finish my Second Symphony more quickly. Perhaps I’d already be on my Third. Or my Fourth. Ten years of this. Instead, I myself feel finished.

Later that night, I am home. I kiss my child goodnight, a rare, uncharacteristic gesture. Then I am in bed with my significant other, whom I also kiss goodnight. We don’t make love anymore. Sometimes I wonder if we ever did. They are already asleep. I wonder if they are dreaming of a better life. I think that I cannot be such a terrible person—just someone human, someone with flaws, and who is in need of doing just a little wrong in order to do right by those I care for most, those I have to protect, which includes myself. This is my foremost responsibility. With that conviction in mind, I turn off the light. I readjust my pillow, and I close my eyes. And I try to dream.