brownian motion

Based on "A Little Cloud" by James Joyce; written with Aman Kapur

Andrew couldn’t sleep. He glanced wearily at the bluish light emanating from his roommate’s desk ― in the glow, he could just about make out the hands of his watch, its hands forming a despairingly early hour. Outside the window lay darkness and silence; within, the rhythmic machine-gun fire of a mechanical keyboard, rattling the cramped tenth-floor dormitory room, scaring the sheep from Andrew’s mind as he tried in vain to count them. Sam was up to something again.

Highlands. Dreary, windswept, moody. Yellowing grass smeared into cliff faces of imposing rock; petrichor mixing with fumes of moss diffusing across the earth (Scotland, probably, by the looks of it). A figure emerges through the fog―pensive, contemplative, a hood of cashmere effortlessly concealing a dark gash down the side of his temple.

Written for The Princeton High School Tower Newspaper

“Why the hell should I care about fairy tales?”

Well, my dear hypothetical friend, you should care because they’re fun. When was the last time you fought a dragon while riding a flying carpet? The last time you were a mermaid seeking to find a world above the waves? The last time you crawled through a wardrobe door and talked to a goat? But they're also a reflection of our social values — what morals does a society think are so important that they’re woven into some of the very first stories we tell our children?

Fanfiction written for a European History assignment

WHEREUPON CANDIDE INDIRECTLY GETS ROUSSEAU MAULED BY A DOG.

Adapted from an article I wrote for The Tower, the PHS student newspaper.

The ocean is quite a poetic oxymoron. For hundreds of thousands of years, it has separated cultures with vast seas and treacherous storms, and yet it has also unified them in contemplating the same majestic waters. As they gazed, they thought of stories. What does the ocean hold, hidden beneath its seemingly endless waves?

Written after a very frustrating debugging session

Absolutely screwed.

After analysing my situation in great detail and considering all possible courses of action, that is my informed conclusion. Utterly completely positively screwed.

quarks, leptons, bosons ―
we are all
the same
inside

On the first day of school, bring a three-ring binder, a notebook with a marbled front cover, and exactly two-point-four ounces of snacks.

hailing winds of words reverberate through
the house, condemning every move, every
breath ― storms of expectation relentlessly
screaming, trembling walls with tempest each hour ―

Death is awoken by a phone call.

“Fine,” he says. Glancing wearily at the time marked on the hands of his pocketwatch, he tumbles gracelessly out of his cramped apartment bed. The work doesn’t pay well.

Adapted from an article I wrote for The Tower, the PHS student newspaper.

Pale Blue Dot is a photograph of Earth, taken from a distance of six billion kilometers by the Voyager spacecraft. Described by Carl Sagan as “a mote of dust in a sunbeam,” our home planet barely takes up a pixel of the vast inky seas beyond. We think we have conquered Nature herself as we bend ecosystems to our will; we think we are masters of the laws of physics as we build spires that graze the sky. We have sailed the seven seas, we have summited the highest peaks, and we have mapped the farthest islands. But as that photograph shows, there is so much of the heavens we have yet to explore.

We are terrible at understanding large numbers. It’s a cognitive limit, a remnant of the good old days when humans spent their lives foraging for berries and lived in small nomadic bands of at most a hundred people Hunter-gatherers never needed to comprehend the phrases “I found 2,140,201 pounds of blackberries this year” or “the tribe population increased to 1,200,305 inhabitants in the spring season.”

The following is adapted from a lecture I gave to the PHS Math Team in February 2023

A combinatorial proof shows that $A$ and $B$ are the same thing by showing that they are solutions to the same counting problem. Usually induction or algebraic proofs can also be used to solve these problems, but combinatorial proofs are usually more insightful and elegant.

The heat death of the universe is inevitable.

The stars will blink out of existence in spectacular fashion, each putting on a final fireworks show for an indifferent universe, and the heavens will settle into a self-satisfied soup of thermodynamic equilibrium: a perfect entropy, a uniform chaos.

a.k.a. the most unrealistic action scene I could think of

Olivia Nishimoto fixed her piercing gaze upon the computer screen before her. On her desk, a Psyduck plushie and a row of neatly arranged mini cacti; on the wall, a poster of Metallica ― a reminder of halcyon days long past. She was truly an oxymoron of a character.

The speed of light in a vacuum is 299,792,458 meters per second. On paper, that is incredibly fast. In a mere 1.3 seconds, a photon of light can travel the quarter-million miles from the Earth to its rock-hewn satellite. But the universe is mostly made of nothing. Through the round porthole window, Earth is but a pinprick in the inkblot sea of black.

Each box had a story. That is, if you could even call them “stories.” Most were uncreative to begin with, and once you get through the first trillion star systems they become terribly repetitive as well.

I’m hungry. It’s intrinsic, some sort of internal voracious insatiable unquenchable craving for food, sustenance, nourishment, whatever you want to call it. For some reason, there’s no shortage of it here ― but perhaps paradoxically there is never enough to eat. Probably a cruel joke, played by the same unknown malevolent entity that put me here as entertainment, as a plaything.

The eternal winds blew forth a ceaseless rustle of sand and dust, slowly burying the last remnants of the lush, blue planet that it once was.

The sky outside was the color of an inkspill, dotted by splotches of ominous, grey clouds. The white noise of a tremendous downpour roared outside, and waves of thunder crashed over the aerial landscape. Looking down at my ill-gotten gains as a stroke of lightning illuminated the sky, I could not resist a small, sly grin.