Writing 101, Day Four: The Serial Killer


Today, write about a loss. The twist: make this the first post in a three-post series.


I was looking through some things with my mom and i found this old paper I wrote for a class journal. It has a lot of water damage and i’d thought it’d lost it. It means a lot to me because a lot of questions i ask myself surface in this horrible question-copia. I’m going to type it up for this post.


Prompt:  What is your purpose

What is anyone’s purpose? What can we say that every moment of out life is about?

My mind wonders to the humors of Avenue Q, but then my heart sinks. What if i become Princeton? What if i don’t know? I breathe air and i have thought! I have questions and to each there is a new answer with new questions.

Why are we here? Life? thought? The world? 42? An obscure joke? Are we that? I don’t know. Who does? If no one knows or no one cares to tell me then should i care? Should this question or the title rule me? If i decided on that, then where would i be? What will i wake up and strive towards? Anarchy? Hedonism? Religion? Is a purpose something i should known? Or something i will end knowing? Should i think about what i bring to the table my whole life or about what i brought when i leave? What do others leave me? Should i decided their purposes based on what they gave me, or more so should i let them tell me? Life is about questions. It’s that abstract tendency that makes us human. This uncertainty and horror and faith is what drives the past back and pulls forth the future. But honestly, since we all have no clue about purpose shouldn’t we all just live and hope to eventually find out.


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