Inquisitive by nature.

If there was a three word sentence that could culminate all my traits, pushed and clumped into a short utterance of vowels and consonants, it may be just that. Eager for knowledge. If you knew me, upon a glance or a ‘good look up-and-down’, this probably isn’t obvious. Knowledge isn’t a resource I actively scavenge for, nor do I find myself inside various libraries or museums, sliding my hand against the various spines of novels and educational textbooks, or reading each metallic plaque nailed onto the display case of some stolen artifact.

 This phrase isn’t active in my social life either. I don’t partake in the gossipings between the various university students around me, and if by chance I find myself with such a gossip, I just smile and nod, crafting the reactions needed ahead of time, listening more to the cadence of speech than the information, so I can produce the right crinkled expression to satisfy the speaker's opinion on the subject. This may paint a picture of me one could say was quite unsociable, and although it is partly true, it is also partly not. I can converse, of course. Laughter and jokes amongst friends. The quote ‘inquisitive’ questioning and debate within seminars. Even idle small talk, which unsurprisingly, I detest. 

What I actually mean is that I don’t ‘seek out’ conversation. I wish not to barge in on other students' dialogue and instigate a whole new line of speech with a ‘hello’ or intrusive laughter at their jokes. If someone wishes to converse with me, I imagine they would invite me to. If not, then I am…not ‘comfortable’, but ‘able’ to have my own company, normally sat outside the bustling cafe on campus, cigarette in mouth, reading a book or listening to some podcast, trying not to think about the undeniable fact that I look like some stereotypical modern hipster.

Perhaps then, ‘inquisitive by nature’ isn’t such a sentence I could categorize myself within then. ‘Fountain of Knowledge’ maybe? This phrase in of itself sounds more like an egocentric outlook on my own personality, which I promise it gives me no such pleasure, but if more relevant to myself, it does have some ground to stand on. I have been able, over the short years I have been alive, to give advice and I suppose, wisdom, to a few friends and strangers. Where said wisdom originates I couldn’t tell you. Like most people, I have been privy to the loss of friendships and relationships, some by circumstance, and some of my own shortcomings (time thankfully allows us to evolve. I wish never to meet the self I once was). Within thought, I haven’t been able to determine whether these instances have allowed me to give out such advice. Perhaps subconsciously I have absorbed these memories and in some sort of alchemical reaction, produce some helpful anecdotes and foresight? I am unsure. What I do know, is that in some way or another, they have helped, or atleast the reaction and thanks I have received make it seem as such. I do hope so. If my experiences can provide anything, I do hope it is relief towards those I care about, or even to those I had chance communication with.

Again however, this is where the connection between me and this phrase ends. I don’t have an encyclopedic-like memory of subjects, of literary works or mathematical equations, but much like all people, I instead contain my past life, memories of days by the seaside, or conversations through tears…

***

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Another pause. Pause after pause, then some clacking, then another pause, a sigh, and more clacking. Clack clack clack. Pause and sigh. Rae hated the clacking and the sighing and the pausing as a non-stop barrage of monotony. A monotonous monotony of onomatopoeic jabs and blows with each tap and push and that god-forsaken clack. Clack clack, word after word, then each word checked through a thesaurus and reclacked for professionalism. Clack. Clack. Clack. 

What he hated more however, was all of it. That this specific clacking had to be linked to him, himself, his being. That it reverberated on and on and on, around and around, wrapping and coiling each memory. And the phrase. A phrase of self. An unattainable, unreasonable task. Something that so many other people can simply put at the top of their dating profiles so easily without a second thought. Adventurous. Loving. Down to Earth. Looking for fun. Something that to others, is trivial, but for some reason, Rae struggled to put words to anything.

Why did he even choose this course? Well, he didn’t, not all of it. Waking up to an email stating ‘PLEASE FINALIZE YOUR MODULE SELECTIONS NOW’, had put his mind in a bit of a tizz. A quick scroll, some internal ‘no’ ‘no’ ‘definitely not’ ‘no’, had led him to an elective in Philosophy, which led him to right here.

Philosophy wasn’t the main course obviously. After doing one year in Computational Sciences, of which was completely out of his choosing, he came out bluntly to his mother about how he felt about the whole course.

“I’ll be honest mum, it makes me want to die.” Completely reasonable. And in some cases, true. At his high school results day, he took the glaring ‘C-’ on the sheet to be a relief, much better than what he had predicted for himself after the exam had finished. His parents, however, took this much more joyfully than he had.

“It’s a ‘get a job free card’ son!” His dad proclaimed on the drive back home, his old home, his new one doesn’t have the ‘dad’ in the frame. “Every job has computers! Every mechanism needs a coder!”.

“Mhm”, he answered, slightly despondent at the idea, trying to hold back a sarcastic comment about how ‘steam trains don’t run on code though’. You see, Rae saw the brain as two halves. Mathematical, coding and equations, trial and error, which for his situation severely highlighted the word ‘error’ until the ink stained the table the paper rested on. Or creativity. A dull way of thinking about the two subjects. You can be creative within equations, and you can be mathematical within art or writing. Two sides of the same coin, each making up the solid circle he could spend. At the time, however, Rae thought this way, and this way of thinking very much pushed him away from the former, like a mother shooing their child away from a stranger.

He wished he had said that sarcastic comment. But he didn’t.

“I got A’s in English.” He spoke through the silence his despondence had created.

Now, frankly, this was a lie. A’s, B’s and so on, didn’t exist anymore. It was numbers. One to nine, and no one knew truly what they meant. For example, Rae scored a four on computer science, which is classed as a ‘Low C’. A five in all sciences, a ‘high C’, so on and so forth. He knew this, his parents did not. So saying that a seven in literature and a six in language was ‘all round’ an A was one half wrong, and another wishful thinking.

“I know Rae, you clever little thing!” His mother said, looking into the mirror attached to the windshield, giving an approving smile and nod.

He couldn’t blame them for not knowing, no one really did.

Let’s crank the wheel a little on this story shall we? Rae goes to college, gets a degree in something or other, makes friends, loses said friends, gets a girlfriend, loses said girlfriend, and then is shunted into Computer Science for a year in university. Gets sad, very sad, changes degree, culminating in him switching to English and Creative Writing and, as we all know, the clacking of Philosophy. All caught up? Great. If not? Just give it some time.