A fictional scene.
“Name: Ashy Lim.”
“Country: Singapore.”
“Year of birth: 1985.”
So far, the form had asked sensible questions. Each had an answer that fitted comfortably into its allotted space.
Ashy’s eyes moved to the next question.
“Describe yourself…”
At last, something interesting.
“I love to swim, eat cheeseburgers and run in the wind.”
The wind was a narrow space between two school buildings. When Ashy ran through it, his legs seemed lighter and wanted to keep going. That was one of the things he called happy.
He continued.
“My hobbies are swimming, eating cheeseburgers and running in the wind.”
He examined the sentence. Somehow, he had already said that.
He crossed it out.
“I believe that we need world peace. I don’t think robots will take over the world. I love computers. I am especially good at Microsoft Excel. I like programming in JavaScript and Visual Basic.”
Computers reminded him of his latest program. The program reminded him of his experiments with peanut butter and strawberry jam. This supplied another important piece of information.
“My favourite sandwich spread is 78% peanut butter, 12% strawberry jam and 10% Milo powder.”
The proportions added up to one hundred. A satisfactory sentence.
He wrote about an animation he liked, then about science and geography.
“There are 734 different cans in my collection at home, and 134 books…”
His writing reached the edge of the box. He continued down the margin, turned the paper over and began filling the other side.
Facts called up other facts. One interest introduced another. Every sentence seemed to reveal something else that would have to be included before the description made sense.
The words formed a rowdy queue in his mind, pushing one another towards the pen.
Quick. Write that down before it disappears.
There was no time to lift the pen. There was barely time to make the letters distinguishable from one another.
At last, he reached the bottom of the paper. He squeezed a final phrase into the remaining space and breathed out.
Now he would check his work.
His mother and teacher had both told him to reread the question after answering it. This time, he remembered.
“Describe yourself in 100 words or fewer.”
Ashy looked at the front of the paper.
He looked at the back.
The form had asked for Ashy, then objected to the quantity.
“Irritated hydrocarbons,” he muttered. “Terribly diffused cracked volcano seams. Totally overwritten seaweed and moss.”
That helped a little.
He began searching for things to cross out.
The difficulty was not that he regarded every sentence as equally interesting. The sentences did different jobs. One supplied an interest. Another supplied a preference. Another explained why the first sentence was there.
Together, they made Ashy.
Removing them felt rather like being told to get dressed, then discovering that only three items of clothing were permitted. Which necessary part was he supposed to leave behind?
He crossed out the sandwich proportions.
Immediately, he wanted to put them back. “I like sandwiches” was not the same information.
He stared at the sentence about world peace. Then at the cans. Then at the computer programs.
Other people apparently managed to describe themselves with very few words. He could not understand how they decided when the person in the description was complete.
Eventually, he handed in the form.
The teacher took it. Behind him, two other boys hurried to finish.
Ashy was already leaving.
In his mind, he climbed into the cockpit of the ZEP Fighter Jet. Engines started. Instruments lit up. He checked for hostile aircraft and prepared to return to friendly territory.
The paper remained on the teacher’s desk.
The rest of Ashy went home.