I'm sitting here, and my
roommate is saying
random, nonesense phrases just to have something to say, like she tends to do. She's watching a show about
eating disorders, a
Lifetime Origional Movie that is supposed to educate women about the problems they've been having or could possibly have. And I think, "what a crock. Those women are beautiful. If anything, this is going to make me want to be
bulemic."
I sit down to write; I need to write a review of a recital I went to for my minor in music. I look at the wall behind my laptop. I had just started putting things up there; cards that made me laugh, Bible verses, a card out of the flowers my dad sent me for Valentine's Day, pictures, the like. I have a Curious George calendar, even. What constitutes 'me'? What is it that makes me up? I have a funny card of a black & white picture of an orangutan, a card that my grandmother sent me (as my grandmother never sends random cards, except for this one), a card my roommate wrote for me to just "have a wonderful day" even though she shares this 10x13 room with me, I have pictures of myself making faces and fooling around, pictures of old friends, and small prints of impressionistic art, mostly Claude Monet; on the desk itself is a thermometer, one with the floating bubbles of colored liquid that I could explain but doesn't really matter (go Gallileo...), a picture of me and my mom in a heart-shaped frame, and a little picture clamp from my work that holds cards my dad got me with my name, the meaning of it, and on one, a Bible verse that describes me.
But that doesn't describe me at all. That's describing what the root of my name is supposed to mean. The Welsh name for "Sea Guardian." What does any of this mean? Who am I? Am I just a bunch of neurons, protons, electrons, arranged in just a way to make me an average-sized, blonde-haired, blue-eyed living creature that we classify as a 'human'? Am I a God-made guardian of living things that was created for a purpose, created to love Him and help other things? Metaphysics. It's the eighth wonder of the world.
When you read too much of your philosophy book, everything does(n't) have meaning.<\p>