Exploration :: Personal Narrative Writing

Exploration I used to have such a pleasant outlook on life; it was cotton candy and soda pop all the way. No, wait, that's a lie. I never liked life much at all. Don't get me wrong I like the touch of a strong hand and the smell of fresh rain, but I have trouble with the fact that no one knows "why" or to what end. I've often hated other people. Sartre said "hell is other people" and I truly agree, but it is a self induced hell. There's this girl named Sarah in one of my classes; she sits in the back of class knitting. "Is my class so mundane that you have to entertain yourself by knitting?" the professor questioned her with a knitted brow. "Well, actually it's crocheting, but I suppose that doesn't change your outlook," she grunted in reply. "I don't think it's 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 feeling all over my body, an excitement. 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 occasions empathy overcomes me. You must already feel I am a rather unlikable person, but I don't 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 didn't want the job. I never applied and I don't enjoy it, but this is what I am. I know it seems impossible 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 meet is subject to my judgements. I oversee all of it, from dew drizzled lush landscapes to decrepit bag ladies. Right now I judge my fingers and toes and the poor soul next 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.