After an English class, she murmurs to anyone who will listen, I always ponder why the hell I am even alive. Why can I not take a more clinical view of life and have majored in the Sciences. Everything has a prescribed meaning, a prescribed purpose. The Humanities affords no such free pass, as it were. Everything must be discovered, pondered, agonized over. It hurts to feel, she thinks as she smiles vaguely.
She heats a fresh kettle of tap water to boiling. It is always best to pour still-boiling water over a fresh teabag, she remembers reading on the package. Never mind the fact you have to wait ten minutes to even drink the tea, it must be boiling at the time of pouring. So that is what she does. Very clinical, this making of tea: heat freshly drawn water to boiling; pour over tea bag; let steep 3-5 minutes for best flavor; this tea is most often served with milk and a touch of honey. She stirs and gazes, and ponders the meaning of life.
Such a tired subject, this, the “meaning of life.” She has exhausted it a hundred times over in her mind and in discussion in class. It may take a different shape, but the general concept is always the same: how do we discover our purpose and live the best life possible?
Someone killed themselves yesterday on the Piccadilly tube line. She imagines the suicide clenching and unclenching their fists, their heart rate rising and falling as the subterranean wind tugs at their hair like an insistent lover. They look around for someone, anyone, to stop them. No one? They throw themselves forward onto the tracks, arms widespread like a pigeon taking flight. Then it is over in this life. A brief moment of terror and pain, and then…
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