color

I take notes diligently, read the assigned texts, and wonder all the while what the hell I'm going to make of myself.

Class participation: pretending to give a damn, but in fact talking for the sake of talking. While your hand is raised, the only thing you notice is that the person speaking hasn't yet made your point. Then, of course, your point is shot down from time to time. But you'll try again anyway. Gotta maximize that twenty percent of your grade, besides making it to class and looking alive. ("Looking," of course, is not synonymous with "being.")

Do I want to be the one to make superior analyses? Do I wish my mind had made that connection? Certainly. But arrogance irritates, even if it is not intended.

I'm sure that many years, in many classrooms, people have prepared for a cozy nap as I raised my hand.

But color makes the difference. Swirls and splashes. Use big words only if you don't fear to say, "Um, like..." when "me and her..." I may be a nerd indeed, but I want to shake you sometimes and bring warmth to your stoic gray, even if your new vigor breeds a mistake or two. You'd be far more bearable.

I wonder what you dream at night as you ritually lay down at the appointed hour (right to the minute, I'd guess). Do you even dream in color? When you point to life experiences, what have you to show? Was it something you read elsewhere?

I read and say, "Damn, I wish I wrote that."

I want to live. Those lines you pour over and analyze, I want those to someday be the ones I wrote.

Here's to the cone-stealers, the pecan-square-thiefs, the random drivers, the ones who pump up the music and sing out of tune, the ones who give a damn for each other but not for limits of time or space or possibility. Here's to the stories we weave each day, the laughs and commentary we find amidst the most mundane circumstances. The horizon tantalizes. No ending here.