And this, and so much more?

I sat in class, doodling an elaborate geometric design on my mostly empty notebook paper. I could hear Crescenzo's voice droning in the background, that thick New Jersey accent echoing off of the sterile walls. She was wearing a sickly green shirt that matched a mysterious green substance she happened to be drinking. I took it for some sort of energy beverage. She was talking about Modernism. We had been in this class for over two months and it felt like all she ever spoke of was Modernism. I mechanically flipped through the pages of my book to reach the work which she intended to lecture on, dreading a lecture in which the students reigned supreme, and there would be no free-thinking, no analytical thought anywhere. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot. My interest was immediately captured, for to date that is one of my favorite pieces of poetry in the literary world. 

I listened as the students around me gave firm opinions based on nothing in particular. We were getting nowhere. Finally, I raised my hand. As her green arm pointed my way, I flushed with the excitement of getting to share my passion for this piece. I immediately made a point about the theme of domesticity in the poem, quoting my favorite passage.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, 

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-

And this, and so much more?

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

I finished, breathless. I believe now that I didn't take one breath when reading it. Finally, finally something I truly cared about. I was no more intelligent than any of the others in the classroom, but for one small moment I was in a fit of passion, sharing my intimate thoughts on this intimate piece of poetry with the short woman in green. I could feel myself blushing, but I don't know why; I wasn't embarrassed. Then the moment passed, and I was left to scrawl frenzied notes into the margin. 

That same day I saw a man who seemed barely alive. His head was shaved bald, his features were pointed, his figure slender. Everything about him seemed fragile, almost bird like. He walked as if his own weight might crush him at any moment, with quick and panicked steps. We exchanged a brief glance as we passed and then he was gone, walking out into one of the only places on campus not smattered with sidewalks. I wondered what his story was. 

Tonight I helped a friend out. Pulling on our shoes, the army of room mates in Apt. 317E unceremoniously stomped out into the parking lot. We pushed his car to the top of a hill and then when the time was right, we pulled the E-brake, he jumped in, and we were off. Running with all of my might, pushing that beat up car shoulder to shoulder with some of my dearest friends, I hooted carelessly into the cool night air. This was life. Without an ounce of dignity, the little car shuddered to a start, and puttered off into the dark. We brushed our hands off, thankful for the exertion and trudged back up to the artificial glow of our living room.