I hate it when things stop making sense.
I wish I cared about how Kate Chopin’s “Désirée’s Baby” exemplifies the power of race in society in light of Ian F. Haney López’s “The Social Construction of Race.” I’m trying hard not to think about it as to work on it as an ant would mindlessly drag a half-bitten leaf, but this bland blank brain just won’t take it in.
Is there some clue that I’m failing to understand? I’m looking for that hidden arrow pointing towards the true direction of my life, some sort of untapped talent or at least something that doesn’t paralyze me with fear and/or boredom. The waters of my mind are infested with eels, and not even thick-skinned crocodiles can dive in to help me find that treasured epiphany everybody seems to have at some point in their youth when they just know what they want to do for the rest of their lives. Everybody seems so full of resolve, and I only stare at waves leaving algae on a faraway shore like an endless offering to an unknown god. If only the waves would bring me something too.