argue with me

I feel like I’m engaging with a new phase in my education.  In my first year at the University of Toronto, I went to university looking for dramatic friends, for whacked-out experiences and for something more magical than realistic – a fantasy encouraged by St. George’s buildings.  Eventually, I found the magic.

However, it wasn’t anything that I would have expected (although, knowing my nerdy, studious self, I should have guessed): my magic was time alone (big ups to V. Woolf to this one, although we became friends only in my second year).  I love reading, like any good writer (a compliment hidden within). I devour stories that contrast and conflict and argue with me.  I dig into darkness and wallow in fluff; I bask in an eternity of untied endings.

I am hungry for information like I’ve never been except for in a high school politics class that incited a desire within me to prove something.  I was surprised at the new feeling that I had something to even prove.  Never before had I realized that I had something to say – and never had I felt the urgent necessity to say it. Out loud. In front of everyone that I could force to sit still for 3 minutes.

Now, I am ravenous for smart arguments and strong research and valuable points made in long discussions about anything.

I still love politics, like I did in high school, and although it took a back seat to my meandering through the world of Classic Lit for a while, every time I talk about it I get excited. Socialism. Elections. Control. Traffic Laws. Bike Lanes. Rob Ford!

A lot of my curiousity comes from the people around me.  My father drives my often-rabid and occasionally disgusting need to know more about religion.  My mother ignites my interest in family politics, gender relations and psychology.  My boyfriend forces me to pay attention to the administration of politics in the capitalistic world we live in, something that, after having talked to him for hours about, I feel very few people actually talk about.  My friends make me curious about relationships, social interactions (really? Him? Again?) and the mental stability of people who are living out Soap Operas without any idea that they’re the star.  My cat causes me to wonder about my abilities to take care of other living things (aka. I want a kitten. Now).  My own life, little and influential as it is, gets me curious about finding out how I can make my indent on this planet.  I want to be a part of the public debate, whether that is through poetry, publications or blogs. I want to teach people what I know.  I want to learn more than what I know. I want to be the best at something. (Mainly writing.) (All things, really, but my ego is a topic for another, lengthier post.)

All of these things in my world, the blogs I read, the articles I dig myself down into the couch for, the books whose every line I want to scribble into my disintegrating notebooks due to their astonishing genius: they make me so freaking …. excited!

How could you not be?  How is this not the most exciting thing in the world, learning what makes us alive and not only live but also cut people off in traffic, look for jobs with resumes pulled out of trash cans and stay with boyfriends that your part-time job pays for?

What makes everything go?

Don’t say it’s time.  Because we made that up too.  But why?

Because we enjoy progress.  Grasping at every sheaf of paper that will fit into the binders between our eyes.  We enjoy that.

Or at least I do.



Gripe here!

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