In the past two years, I learned that there are only two true emotions: fear and love.

Out of fear, comes contempt, hatred, anger. It’s the destructive one (when not appropriately) handled. Yet, it’s okay to be afraid, because that’s how we know not to put our fingers on a burning stove. The pain tells us that something is not right.

Then there’s love. This begets happiness. This so internal. When contentment becomes a feeling of everything. Belonging, peace, and support. People change tremendously when they are met with a smile and appreciation. When I walk along with anger festering in my mind and others only meet me with gratitude and happiness, how can I not say “hello! I am so happy to see you!”

Today while I sat in a cafe across from someone in deep pain, I was at a loss. It wasn’t my game to play, and really all I could offer was, “Try love. I believe that will help you.”

If you ever need to verify my identity in a precarious situation, there is only one question that you need to ask:

Want to get a drink?

I always hated how he ran up ahead, leaving me behind as we navigated the broken streets and local faces. But I once asked him, “Why?”

He says, “I am a herald. I am Jack Bauer. I am making sure the streets are safe for you.”

I try to remind myself of that. While I admire the century-old buildings and the fresh produce at nearby stalls, I see a color of blue rush ahead in the crowd in front of me. A boy, one might suspect, always wearing a Nike sports visor, carefully visualizing quick exits and following clear sightlines. He mentally notes the shops that have bags I like, desserts on display, and colorful graffiti. People once called him a “teddy bear” for his enveloping hugs. He returns almost in a jog, quickly stepping around the broken tile.

And quickly, he pulls my hand. He says, “I have something to show you.”

For most of the seven years that I have lived in my apartment, the shades remained closed. Usually it was for the benefit of my favorite guest who hated the blinding sunshine in the morning hitting our heads. Not being a morning person either, I closed the shades.

Recently, in an effort to inspire my writing and spectacular (perhaps true?) advice (sunshine kills bacteria with UV rays), I opened the shades again.

My window faces the inside of the building. I see in front of me, my building’s wall, exhaust pipes from water heaters, ovens, and the washer/dryer combo unit in the garage. To the left, the small window from the bathroom. My window and the bathroom’s window are the only un-modern windows in the entire flat, heavy painted window with glass, uneven paint along the edges. A large metal clasp sits at the top of the bottom panel. It never closes quite completely.

And to the right on the adjacent building, I see a window that I never spotted previously. At night, it lights up. The next building is taller than mine. Three stories perching over the two story building of mine.

The sun blares through my window in the morning blinding my eyes. But now, once I have pushed the sleepy moments from my eyes, the words spill easier and faster from my fingers. How did I never notice that before?

A few months ago, a six year old boy asked me, “Why aren’t you married yet?”

At the time, I thought that it was rather cute. And really how can I blame the little boy for asking such intrusive questions? I knew that the parents didn’t teach the boy well to respect other decisions. I wasn’t bothered by it all. I only struggled with what I should say or not say in front of conservative parents.

But then when a friend asked. A friend who has known me for nearly a decade. A friend who I was rather close with when we first met…but then drifted away in the last several years. A pang of pain hit me. It wasn’t the fact that I wanted marriage badly or that I wanted what my friend had (happily married for several years, a 8 month daughter, a large suburban house, a stable corporate job).

Rather it was the implication that marriage is a status of success and worth.

I have been raised in a society where marriage is the norm. It is what you do. Yet unlike going to elementary school or learning to drive, it’s a sign that one has achieved the life goal. Granted, that’s what religion says. That’s what many baby boomers would say. That’s what ancient societies would say.

Yet what about this modern society where people have progressed way beyond their means. That a partner isn’t essential for survival. Where a partner is simply just a witness to our lives, to prove that our life is worth living? And if we choose to find other substitutes for the same need?

There was a time when I imagined my own wedding. That it would all about me. I would have the flowers, the cake (or ice cream), the music, the fancy food, everything. And yes, I still occasionally dream of it—it’s hard not to think of a party that’s just for you.

Yet, I find “why aren’t you married yet” an obnoxious question. Because beneath it all, it’s asking why aren’t you successful yet? do you even care about having a partner? what is wrong with you? why aren’t you normal? when can we celebrate you?

I don’t know how to answer the question of why aren’t you like the rest of us? Because I am not.

At some level, I realize that these people want me to be happy and for some, they are asking the question out of curiosity, they are asking because they want to know.

I naturally surround myself with like-minded people. Most of my friends are unmarried. Some are coupled. Some are single. But most importantly, we don’t ask about the why. We ask how everyone is. Because we are happy for who they are than what they do.

I came across an episode of This American Life of the “Tough Room” at the Onion. Although old, it reminds me of how much I spend scraping my words nowadays like a recent piece I wrote at Medium.

At Berkeley, I desperately wanted to write at the campus newspaper The Daily Cal and the satirical weekly The Heuristic Squelch

But if I had to make a list of headlines speaking about life in San Francisco, what would they be?

I love to play my music loud. At least loud in my room. It’s my nighttime ritual when I am alone in my room. I listen to my current favorite tracks. Currently they are the latest from Naked and Famous and the catchy tune from The Knife.

As I browsed the web and filled my brain with useless information, I heard a bang. I paused and stepped into my dark hallway. Living on a busy street, I hear this kind of thing all the time. Yet several years ago, I vowed not to have a pedestrian effect. Was that a gunshot? I shuffled to the library room, which overlooks the sidewalk from the second floor. I spotted a man standing in front of my house.

Of course, I stopped myself as I wondered how I would describe him. I thought…black man as I was standing on my second floor. But then I listened carefully and his accent was Spanish…and a few Spanish words sputtered out. I thought that he was waving a black object. A gun? I then watched him throw it into nowhere and it fell into a clatter. I don’t know what it was. But then I saw him bang his fist on the hood of a car. Boom! I couldn’t tell if there was anybody inside the rusty looking blue car. He was yelling, angry about being inferior, about being pushed around. He had a small glass bottle, which clearly was a sign of his mental state.

I watched several people walk by, who barely gave him a look.

Hesitant about what to do next, I asked Chris. I called the non-emergency number to report the guy. I sputtered on how to describe him and especially when asked about the race—my politically correctness overwhelmed me. I said that he was bald, blue paid, jeans, and a black backpack. He wandered away, still yelling.

Last year, I remember a man wailing in tears, cursing the afternoon sunny sky. Waiting outside a popular deli with my broken shoes, I felt sad for the man. Everyone on the street watched him with wariness, fear, and disgust. As he crossed the street, suddenly he sat down in the lane, blocking traffic. For the next five minutes, I tensed as everyone started taking photos of him and pulled out their phones. Whether to instagram, Facebook, twitter. I imagined the line “this is the Mission!” I don’t mean to sound superior, but I didn’t want to pull out my phone. I suddenly knew that I would too lie down in the middle of the street too when in despair…more in act of attention the-please-pay-attention-to-me. Because I knew that there’s nothing like cars going around you to make you realize that you matter. But I watched the man with my hands to the side and my bag closed. Until suddenly the man decided to leave. Not a single person came to help him.

Because Chris was driving, I tapped in the text message for him. I am America’s Cup. Alluding to the crazy expensive carbon fiber boats racing in the San Francisco Bay.

The immediate response was: Lucky bastard.

“Whoops, I missed the ‘at’!” I said. “You are America’s Cup!”

In text messages, in emails, in instant messages, in writing, I naturally miss prepositions and articles. Yet when I speak, these words don’t ever disappear in the ether. It’s as if the intention writing doesn’t translate through my fingers.

Does my writing voice believe that they are unnecessary and useless? Because for simplicity (despite all my run-on sentences and endless babble), I believe that those words don’t really add much? Especially when I have adjectives and adverbs at hand!

Some people misspell in their quickly written messages. Some say your when they meant you’re. Others too use you and I incorrectly (note that there’s very little reason for you and I, overcorrection abound!).

I just drop all my inessential words. Because for this purpose, isn’t it better to declare that one is the expensive regatta?

In my twenties, I often believed that I needed to do what everyone thought was fun. I was a regular at the local bars (because everyone had fun drinking although I usually only drank water) and I spent ridiculous amounts of money at “New American” restaurants (even for meals that I thought were entirely disgusting). I even hosted huge rocking parties, inviting everyone I knew, to come over. Coupled with alcohol and other pleasant things.

But what was I really thinking?

I once read an article where the author decided to be true to herself. That meant that she went out less often. She spent more time relaxing at home. That also meant that she saw less of her friends often.

And here’s the rub.

I spent a lot of time doing things that I absolutely disliked just so that people would like me more. In some ways, that did work. They called me regularly. They invited me to things. Because maybe I added color? A sense of naivete and innocence? Yet by the end of my twenties, I suddenly just stopped participating. Let’s not lie about this. I prefer more hole-in-the-wall cuisine. I love spending hours watching (good) TV and movies, writing endlessly, and wrapping myself up in burrito with my blanket.

What this turned into was that I suddenly was not part of the former big groups. I slowly lost touch with people. But maybe, it was for the best, because did I really connect with them authentically?

Whatever the case, I am a little more satisfied with my activities. So here’s to being true and telling others what I want rather than pretending that I want the same things that they do.

The boats in front of me for the Youth America’s Cup was happening right in front of me. Yet, I had trouble focusing. Ten boats from eight countries were competing with 42 feet long carbon fiber boats in the San Francisco boat. I wonder if it just seemed like “peanuts”. Or whether, the idea of racing didn’t appeal to me as the boats moved quickly from the Golden Gate Bridge toward Alcatraz and back toward Marina Green.

All I was fascinated by were the helicopters. That is, the two helicopters that were capturing the race from a wide angle and a “dramatic” angle. One red and blue one hovered far above the boats…at least more than a mile in the air. Then the other got low to get capture the boat. And it buzzed and buzzed.

Granted, I rarely see any events that require such helicopter manuvering. And I knew that these particular races with all the money poured…demanded to have great angles on TV. Of course, why not helicopters? And as perfected after surely years of production, we saw what we wanted to see on the big screen.

My knowledge in boats and sailing go little beyond the one time that I found myself on a sailboat drifting on San Francisco Bay. I like being the near water, but not always on it, reminding me of the time I got horribly sick on the ferry to Catalina Island. As the AC-42s whizzed by and the live commentary, I kept wondering how the helicopters kept in sync. Was there a producer instructing them on their movement? Did the pilots enjoy this kind of work or was it very robotic, barely any artistry or freedom? How does a helicopter work? Can it go backwards?

I remember the first and only time on a helicopter. In my late teens, my parents brought my sister and me to an Alaskan cruise. Splurging, we took a helicopter ride to a glacier. Just the four of us and the pilot. Unlike a plane, I saw views up close…usually not possible by plane. Yet the only thing that I remember the most…was the noise. We all were required to wear huge headsets. I felt awkward speaking through them because we had to press a button…and everyone including the pilot would hear. No whispers allowed. I remember staying awkwardly silent as did the rest of my family. I remember that the most, and barely the walk I took in the glacier.

They say that humans are impressed by nature when they are in it. When I see oceans, trees, mountains, canyons, I am not impressed. I act like the way that others do, because they expect me to be in awe. But what I remember the most are the technology and the people. Is it that awful?