Hello everyone and welcome to another edition of Me
Talking. When I arrived home from school a feeling of melancholy washed
over me for some reason. I’ve been feeling like this every Friday evening for
as long as I can remember. I don’t really know how to describe the feeling. I
get home, I take off my shoes and set my book bag to the floor. If I’m not
working I go upstairs to put on some comfortable clothes, and if I do work I go
upstairs to put on my work clothes. If I find myself not going to work, I put
on my leisure clothes and make my slow way down the stairs. When I come down I
am usually greeted by my parents and about 50 questions about my day or what I
did the day before. Beyond the typical words of encouragement that I can do it “if
I tried harder” speech is the slow descent into the harsh reflection of my week.
I begin to question and overthink every achievement and defeat. Did I really do
everything I wanted to do this week? Was that feeling of praise and power and
self-fulfillment really warranted with my “achievements” of the week? I look
over to the dinner table. It’s set for a candlelight dinner, like many Fridays as
the weather begins to get colder, and the leaves begin to fall from the trees. I
would message my girlfriend, but she’s at her cross country practice so she won’t
answer. I don’t want to overwhelm her with my petty overthinking, so I’ll
message her later when she gets out. My mother calls me from the kitchen asking
me what I’m doing, and I answer “nothing”. Nothing. That’s a typical response I
give when I know she’s going to tell me to help her. She begins to tell me in a
raised voice to come help her with the dinner. I begin to wonder whether or not
I was actually doing nothing just then. Nothing, like many things in life, is all
perspective. The smallest thing can mean the world and more to someone, while
the world and more can mean the smallest thing to others. She’s yelling now.
The smell of roast chicken and garlic fill the air, and I know dinner is ready
to be served. It’s ready to be served, and I will help serve it. I get up now
and go into the kitchen. My mother is putting chicken, potatoes, and a salad on a porcelain plate in even proportions. I look at the
plates as I set them at each of our seats, and I realize I’m pretty hungry. When
we talk at the dinner table, we will disagree on the topic at hand, no matter
what it may be. That’s just what happens when you live with six other people.
This feeling is isn’t losable. Rather, I just learn to live with it. It has to
pass at some point, and it does, but only for a moment.
P.E.N.T.C.I.
*Sorry for the lack of content once again, I'm still getting back into the swing of things. But don't follow your dreams, follow me instead
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