Today I submitted a form expressing my intent to graduate at the commencement ceremony in December. Upon handing over the sheet of paper, the man on the other side of the desk energetically congratulated me on my impending completion of my undergraduate career.
I smiled and thanked him, naturally.
Frank is a 29-year-old male, whom I met him behind APU’s on-campus apartments with my friend, Tara, at around 8 or 9 p.m.
“That Uber girl was totally hitting on me.”
In his mildly drunken stupor, the man crossed the street from the car that just pulled away to join Tara and I on the sidewalk. He seemed harmless enough.
Originality is an end that is seldom met, particularly in writing.
Authors, journalists, and the like can have an aspect of style and technique infused within writing. Sure, there is authenticity and a brute honesty that can come of writing. But originality? That is the finish line that writers don’t often cross – just because you can see it doesn’t mean that you’ve crossed it.
The Jordanian pilot’s plane was coming down, there was no stopping it. The month was December, and it looked as though his mission against the Islamic State would inevitably fail. His landing in Syria should have only meant that he was making his contribution to the cause of bringing down IS. He was captured quickly, most likely to be tortured and beaten. The coalition could do nothing – only wait and see what was to come of this pilot’s fate.
The only sound audible is the quick click-clack of my fingers striking the keyboard of the laptop in front of me, with the occasional flip of the glossy textbook page. He sits across from me, silent in whatever productivity he manages to convince me that he is doing.
I like that we can sit in silence. There is a particular extent of beauty that comes from two people not needing to speak aloud to enjoy each other’s company. It is comfortable with him. I am comfortable.