a collection of short stories and skewed thoughts

How A Bowl of Cereal Saved Me From an Existensial Crisis

In my short decade and a half of life, I've realized that I'm really not like many of the people around me. Though that is an uptight, pretentious, and even cliché way to begin something, that is how I began. To me, life has always seemed slightly lacking. It isn't as though I can't enjoy amazing experiences or intense feelings of joy; I can. And it isn't as though I haven't been the girl to trust the wrong guy, or the girl to spill her strawberry banana smoothie about .02 seconds after receiving it from a smug faced barista. I feel emotion and I make mistakes and I have achievements just like everyone else. But I cannot seem to shake the feeling that something is..... missing. An indescribable something that would give everything a sort of clarity maybe. Or comfort. Something to make life more lifelike I suppose. Something more. If you're reading this and you know what I'm talking about, in your head all around around you I mean, and you are flushing with understanding, then welcome.

Today I had frosted flakes. If you've ever had frosted flakes you know that the sweet way they taste is like the feeling you get when you hear an amazing guitar riff or when you see someone you haven't seen in a little too long. That's un- exaggerated, and if you disagree you are wrong. Anyhow, after eating my frosted flakes I found myself full, which is completely natural and typical. 4 hours later, I was hungry. Again, nothing out of the ordinary happening here. Don't worry, there is a point. I'm one of those people who has the creation of life on their minds at least twice a day every day. The classic 'what is my purpose?' and 'who am I?' or 'why are any of us here?'. So there I was, sitting on my bed staring at hands thinking about these types of things and wishing I had more cereal. And then a thought hit me. I love frosted flakes.

I love everything about frosted flakes. I love the way they taste, the way the smell, and even the way they look. So obviously since I love them, I must enjoy them. I appreciate them, in a way. But even with all my love and affection, while frosted flakes still make a perfectly delecious meal, hours later I will find myself no longer full. Missing something, you might say.

I enjoy my life. Maybe I don't always love and cherish it as much as I would had I been born under the name 'Tony the Tiger', but I'm grateful. I've had some pretty good days. I've had some awful days too. So if this is true, why do I want more? What could possibly be missing?

I have met people who understand these possibly useless types of connections that I make; people who think and feel in this outlandish sort of language. Sometimes it feels like we're all just wandering, just us lost artists searching for a sense of more. Our only solace being each other and the things we create, which are sometimes lost even on ourselves. But there are children starving and taxes to be paid and people to meet and/or lose. There's tens of millions of other things I could hypothetically come up with to worry about, so maybe the feeling of more I'm searching for would crush me under the pressure of it all.

Then again, maybe I'm just hungry.