There’s this insane ripple of envy when I see film or read novels. And I start thinking about what could have been or what I could have chosen.

So many people would then say it’s not too late or it wasn’t meant to be So it’s risk or fate.

I read the wikipedia bios of the great filmmakers—the ones people criticize for their insanity, their perfectionism, their incredible dedication to art. I know that I have always yearned to be a people person—and that would be my first priority. And the second, to be an artist or creator.

I always wondered though—what if my parents had encouraged me to pursue my flights of creativity? Maybe beyond patiently watching my random disjointed films? Or to encourage me to participate in more writing classes, watching art films and the like—stuff that I have only done in the recent years.

But then I wonder, is it because I grew up with the understanding that an engineering degree rather than a degree in the arts was more valuable and certain? And that once I arrived at Berkeley despite a slight desire for creative writing and film, I never once thought about it? Perhaps it was my better skill at math—it was natural that my logic led me in that direction considering that I never did excel at English. No, it couldn’t be just that.

I was a latchkey kid started when I was 7. There were two hours where my sister and I would be home alone—our mom would pick us up from school and drop us off at work as she hurried to the hospital for her PM shift, then our dad would come back from work a few hours later. In those short hours, it was understood that my sister and I were free—perhaps to cause havoc. I would get the camcorder and create short clips of fancy—sometimes inspired by music videos or stories in my head. Always quirky, thematic around breaking free.

And yet, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Right after I finished at Berkeley, I took a filmmaking class. I loved it and started a film. I had planned out each scene. But for some reason as I was heading to graduate school, I abandoned it. It’s unfinished—long scenes with intercut music of someone walking, a shot of signs, choppy script. Just like many half-finished projects that I have in sudden artistic pursuits.

Perhaps that was an opportunity. Or that I keep tricking myself thinking the doors are shut even when they were always open.