My friends all know that I have a cynical and sarcastic way of seeing things but privately I’m sensitive; I care too much. It has been easy to believe in the nights where I’d stare blankly at my blaringly empty computer screen, desperate to come up with a thesis statement for an essay. Or days when I’d just highlight passages from novels and textbooks because I could never be too safe reviewing everything for the upcoming test. Because they’re what’ll lead you to success, right? Getting that college diploma and getting a job. Money. But I want to believe in those days when I’m solely, repeatedly, soul-crushingly folding envelopes at my internship all day long; those days when I look back at my phone, wondering why that stupid-yet-I-can’t-ignore-him-for-some-reason guy hasn’t texted me back yet; mornings when I’m too tired to give a shit about wearing makeup; late afternoons when I’m sipping tea alone in the living room listening to the quiet echo in the house; nights when I’m lying in my bed and having philosophical conundrums that I’d never have the focus to contemplate on during the day; and saying hello first to someone that I’ve met only once before. I want to believe because maybe one day that person will become someone unforgettable and meaningful to me and all it took was just one hello from me. I want to believe in crying inside when I’m slowly withering away at my internship because I want to look back at how I felt in the future and laugh, say that it wasn’t so bad. I want to believe that these little, mundane things add up somehow, and they’re not just these useless fillers that compose my life. I demand life to be full of worth and meaning and learning – yet I also seek acceptance of the nonsensical way through which the world runs, to quietly recognize that some things can never be justified or understood with an answer.