Questions for Self

#2 Creative Non-Fiction

Chloe Lynn


Questions for Self


Why are you so socially awkward?  What is it about people that keeps you shut in your room at all hours of the day?  Have you even met the people living in the room next to yours?  Have you initiated more than one conversation in the past twenty four hours?  In what world is stating “what’s this doing in my pocket” and removing a wind chime from the outside pouch of your backpack considered an acceptable icebreaker?  Why is there still a wind chime in the outside pouch of your backpack?  Why have you not hung it up in your room yet?  That’s what you brought it for, right?  And what is the mysterious crumbly thing that shares that same pocket, and why have you not taken it out yet?  Why are there so many dining hall napkins littered about your room?  Why haven’t you taken out the trash?  Is the ten foot journey from your door to the trashcan really too far to make?  Why have you not cleaned your room or changed your sheets, and why have you not yet folded the laundry that you did three days ago?  Why did you wait until nine o’ clock tonight to make and eat your dinner?  Why did you wait until eleven to start your homework?  Why do you always procrastinate every last thing, even the things you enjoy doing?  Why do you always wait until ten minutes before class to print out your homework?  And why do you, by default, go to the printer in the library basement, the one printer out of all of them that is most likely to be jammed?  Why did you choose so many classes that require printing things?  Why did you think it was a good idea to take two language classes at once?  You’ve already replied with in your German class, and ja in your Spanish class—how long is it now before your head implodes and you start spouting tonterías like “qué macht eso Windspielen en meine bosillo?”  And why do you try to relieve the stress brought on by such swell decision-making by listening to horror stories on YouTube?  Why do you keep yourself awake all night, thinking there’s a monster in the closet?  What are you, five?  And why is it, though you clearly have a very active imagination in this department, that when you try to write horror stories of your own, they are never remotely frightening?  Why can you never get anything quite right?  Why is your own brain always working against you?  Why is it that you can never seem to accomplish anything creative until you manage to forget that you are a real live person who actually exists?  Why is it so much easier for you to pretend than to live?  What are you going to do with these last thirty words?  Are you planning to answer any of these questions?  But no, that would be far too easy, wouldn’t it?

The End

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