How to not effectively get through class without an existential crises

Fiona Hinkulow, Senior Writer

Deep contemplative moods can strike us when we are least expecting them. In the tortoise (half-awake, half-asleep) mode, after only having 4 hours of sleep the night before doing whatever assignment I had to do for whatever AP class, I get up and blast “A Soft Jazz Backdrop” playlist via my Spotify account until I leave the house. It is only moments before I reach the main entrance into Liberty High School, which I realize that we are approximately traveling at one thousand miles per hour, four hundred and sixty meters per second, and that we are only on this earth for about a hundred years, and that the bell has just rang.

I sprint towards some room to escape the dreaded buzz resounding from the bell on the intercom; everything is just all a blur. Luckily, the room I stumble into is my Chemistry class. I scan the room, searching for my seat until at last I spot it in the back of the classroom, in the furthest corner. I weave my way through the obstacle-course-like backpacks. As the teacher begins to drone about some archaic formula, I begin to see pyramids as big as my teacher, walking on two legs, waltzing in my field of vision. I start to wonder. I wonder.

My thoughts go back to what I was experiencing moments before I arrived in class: what is the whole point of it all? How is life fair? I mean, for most of our lives we are constantly fighting for some unattainable goal and most of us don’t even reach it, and, as we grow old, we get thrown away, deemed unusable and as helpless as a day-old infant. The period is over and I storm out, learning only one thing from my previous class: there is nothing, except endless jazz playlists.