The end

Nicole Hennessy

Some people easily make friends. I’m not one of those people. I’m weird and awkward and honest and real and suspicious and damaged by past relationships gone bad, and when I meet new people I want them to be potentially beautiful. Most people can’t even pull off the potentially part.

It’s as if I am on my own in a world full of disillusioned trying-to-be-humans like me, surrounded by non-identities who are rabidly willing to sacrifice integration of personality for blind comfort, which is a fake thing that messes with one’s mind.

These people I’m referring to all have lists that will never be completed. They’re very small but very long. And they’ll never get to the end of what they must accomplish.

They’re formally educated and use correct punctuation in the awkward silence of their own small little worlds that wrap around their small little minds, hugging them in a blindfold stance.

They’re ambitious and their impressive resumes lurk in the dark corners of the insecurity in which your laziness dreams.

But you are not lazy at all. You are an intelligent individual who has seen the herd and let it pass by. You are an insomnia of coincidence prepared to let your life happen to you.

Your planner is a crumpled receipt on the bottom of your purse with a few vague plans scrawled on it.

You are an almost finished poem on the verge of truth but not quite. And your dreams matter even when you don’t really exist during the morning commutes in a sunrise city stoned on its own diligence.

It is us and them, as one redundantly played rock song contends, no matter how hard we try to be one group sentenced to the same redundancy of spinning and spinning in oblivion.

It really doesn’t matter if people are jobs or words or accusations or crimes or religions or knowledge or violence or depositories for common sense and decency, you are still passing under the passing sky and it knows you know you are whole and capable of loving that which is capable of opening a constantly closing mind.

In the unbearable silence of your confusion, find refuge in music loud enough to… nothing, never mind. The end.

Nicole Hennessy is a senior magazine journalism major and columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact her at [email protected].