One of my teachers told me I was smart once. I gathered my things and they took me aside and I tried to take that lesson home with me. All I could think was “is this what it’s supposed to be like?” I’ve learned a lot in my last two years of college. More than the other four years combined.

I feel that knowledge accumulating and clicking together like puzzle pieces. I wonder where the bits and pieces of knowledge hid before they found their match and If they were always there or if they couldn’t exist without their counterparts.

Have you ever had someone ask you something and you’re like holy shit. I know this. I have the answer. And the pure adrenaline rush is too much and you can’t pull the words. The excitement of the knowledge is like almost too much to bear and its drowns me. My hand slips down. I pretend I’m fixing my hair or have to scratch my head. Never mind. Not me.

Writing offers a cure for this. An option to express those things that light and fizzle inside of you like worn out matches. I slip these memories out and place them on paper or whatever digital option you’re favoring these days and there it is.

And then I feel a bit of boasting is natural. You’re right. I am smart. Look. Its right here, I did it. I put it all together. Aren’t you proud?

Now what?


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