Sitting on the third floor couch in my dorm room, I can hear my housemates one floor below singing loudly as one of them strums the guitar, transitioning effortlessly from song to song with practiced ease. While not all of them are pitch perfect--and some don't quite know the lyrics--they hold nothing back as they belt out the slightly off-key high notes. It's obvious by the way they enthusiastically sing/yell their hearts out to the motley array of songs that they are having the time of their lives.
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This post is a little different from the previous ones, providing a bit of insight into my decision to pursue writing.
Last semester in my Game History class, the very first assignment required each student to keep a strict, week-long log recording everything that comprised of day-to-day life. And I mean everything--from sleeping and showering to socializing and resting, nothing was overlooked. The objective, the teacher explained once the week had ended, was to illustrate how much time was wasted every day on trivial pursuits. The message was simple: if you were not working, you were not spending your time wisely. The past couple of days have teased of spring, the wind from the lake abating just long enough for me to enjoy the warm embrace of the evanescent sun on my face, quite uncharacteristic of Vermont winter.
Of course, being Vermont winter and the complete and perfect embodiment of fickle instability, the weather suddenly remembered the spasmodic eclecticism for which it is known and returned the cold with no refund. Needless to say I was none too pleased with this arrangement and found myself increasingly slipping into grandiose daydreams of spring. Striking when least expected, and certainly never forced, inspiration is often hard to come by. It cannot be predicted, summoned, or called upon; it is elusive, always slipping through your grasp when needed the most. Contemplation can produce many good ideas, but nothing quite compares to true inspiration.
Novelty is ephemeral.
The more familiar we become with something the more its novelty begins to fade, and what was once viewed with a joyful wonder will grow old and banal until one day the awe that was once felt lives on only in memory. As time passes the memories will weaken and slowly fall away, one by one. Although we may still greet those that are left with the warmth and intimacy of an old friend, the feeling will never be the same. Today I met one of those people who make you think; who make you reconsider notions you stand staunchly against. Those preconceived ideas that have become so ingrained in you you live your life by them, even though you can't remember where they came from or why you have them at all--all that matters is that they're there and you believe in them. That is, you did believe them, until you heard the story. One story is all it takes to shake that certainty. To place doubt. To clear a path for new ways of thinking, for new values to live by.
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Who Am I?Introverted bookworm, vegan foodie, casual runner, writer/editor, envier of tiny houses, Hufflepuff/Pukwudgie, and self-declared nerd. Creating Order From Chaos
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Ye Olde Posts
December 2016
Slice of Life |