On one more college visit, I sit in the second row.
I keep my iPod close to me, furiously typing notes, as my mother peers over in a way that makes me unsure if she doesn't trust technology, or me.
I want to cry. All around me sit souls who have much to say, and many ways to inspire. They say that the most impotant thing is to tell a story that inspires, defines you, and most impotantly: does not bore the reader.
I want to cry. In this room I can already see the different stories. The different expectations. The great moments. The changing expiriences.
I want to cry. What are my great moments? The guy I loved for far too long, when the same guy told me I was a good writer, getting rejected from everything I attempted sophomore year, a car crash I was in, follwers on tumblr, being the worst player on volleyball, going to confession with a priest that didn't care.
I want to cry. How great can a story be when it bores the writer?
I want to cry. I wouldn't be interested in anything I had to say at all.
The presenter asks his big question: "What do you want to get out of college?"
I want to cry. Even as my mother peers over my shoulder, I have to write the only thing I can.
I want it to make me happier than highschool did.