Wednesday, March 27, 2019

Exploration :: Personal Narrative Writing

geographic expeditionI used to drive such a pleasant prognosis on life it was cotton candy and soda pop tout ensemble the way. No, wait, thats a lie. I never liked life much at all. Dont get me wrong I like the touch of a well-set hand and the smell of fresh rain, but I leave get to with the fact that no ane knows why or to what end. Ive often hate different people. Sartre said hell is other people and I in truth agree, but it is a self induced hell. Theres this girl named Sarah in one of my classes she sits in the back of class knitting. Is my class so mundane that you move over to entertain yourself by knitting? the professor questioned her with a knitted brow. Well, in reality its crocheting, but I suppose that doesnt change your outlook, she grunted in reply. I dont sound off its very responsible student behavior, an audible sigh escaped his pursed lips. I could just feel the tension mounting in the room. It gave me this hot sense of smell all over my body, an exci tement. I felt so pleased by her punishment. I suppose that is not very Christian behavior, but I also suppose I am not very Christian. sometimes I feel I should be more accepting of other people, mind you not very often, but on rare occasion empathy overcomes me. You must already feel I am a preferably unlikable person, but I dont believe that to be true. As I sit in my four cornered room writing to you, my reader, I suppose I might like you, given the proper circumstances. You see, I am a judge. I didnt want the job. I never utilize and I dont enjoy it, but this is what I am. I know it seems unachievable to believe that a twenty-one-year-old woman could be a judge, but it is true. I preside over a huge court and everyone and everything I adjoin is subject to my judgements. I oversee all of it, from dew drizzled lush landscapes to decrepit mantrap ladies. Right now I judge my fingers and toes and the poor soul attached to me. I judge proven scientific experiments and baseless philosophical arguments. I sit and stare at this nauseating orange tabletop in this disturbingly small cubicle. I shiver at the thought of how many fingers have typed on these same keys and the meaningless jargon or incredible realizations they have produced.

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