Answers to questions
"What's your major if you don't mind me asking?"
Why would I mind? John's question wasn't a threat. It was only hours ago and I can't remember if I initiated the conversation or not.
"Right now it's English, Creative Writing. I'm thinking about doing a double major in Psychology, though," I replied. For now, it's only a half-truth I tell people so they don't condemn me for having a worthless major in something I'm mediocre - at best - at. He didn't need to know that, and I didn't need to know what he thought, so I ended the discussion there.
Earlier still, Afton asks me and the other co-workers just as deep a question; What makes you depressed?
"What doesn't?" was the quick-witted reply I gave, though I gave more serious thought to it than I'd allow myself to express. These people - most people - know me as some goofy jerk; Why spoil that so they can hear about my existential crisis?
I stammered on, however, trying to explain myself. "I mean, I don't really get depressed about things, like tragedy or what have you. Just me." A few jokes later and I got them to stop looking at me funny and we all went back to work.
So when I later was asked about college, my answer to the first question rang true and loud like a thick bell between my ears. I've never been to depressed about poor people in other countries or the injustices happening in our own, but I'll beat myself up over a spilled glass of milk.
Later I learn that I can judge whether I love someone or something else if I can be sad for it. If I cringe imagining horrible things happening to it. If I cry for them in my dreams because I don't cry anymore in a lucid state. I'm not sure if I can.
If true love waits, surely I'm in for something good. Only somone as idle as I can see that the most attractive peoples would never be attracted to me. So if I happen to love you, don't love me back and you might just have me forever. I can't stand the sound of my own voice.
Alex
Why would I mind? John's question wasn't a threat. It was only hours ago and I can't remember if I initiated the conversation or not.
"Right now it's English, Creative Writing. I'm thinking about doing a double major in Psychology, though," I replied. For now, it's only a half-truth I tell people so they don't condemn me for having a worthless major in something I'm mediocre - at best - at. He didn't need to know that, and I didn't need to know what he thought, so I ended the discussion there.
Earlier still, Afton asks me and the other co-workers just as deep a question; What makes you depressed?
"What doesn't?" was the quick-witted reply I gave, though I gave more serious thought to it than I'd allow myself to express. These people - most people - know me as some goofy jerk; Why spoil that so they can hear about my existential crisis?
I stammered on, however, trying to explain myself. "I mean, I don't really get depressed about things, like tragedy or what have you. Just me." A few jokes later and I got them to stop looking at me funny and we all went back to work.
So when I later was asked about college, my answer to the first question rang true and loud like a thick bell between my ears. I've never been to depressed about poor people in other countries or the injustices happening in our own, but I'll beat myself up over a spilled glass of milk.
Later I learn that I can judge whether I love someone or something else if I can be sad for it. If I cringe imagining horrible things happening to it. If I cry for them in my dreams because I don't cry anymore in a lucid state. I'm not sure if I can.
If true love waits, surely I'm in for something good. Only somone as idle as I can see that the most attractive peoples would never be attracted to me. So if I happen to love you, don't love me back and you might just have me forever. I can't stand the sound of my own voice.
Alex