Rain beat against the windows of the classroom, a fast tempo matching the tapping of the students feet. All in rapid succession but repetitive, and dull, and lifeless. A girl sat in the corner of the room, tapping her toes and flexing her fingers with no real purpose. Everything is supposed to be done with a purpose, it’s why we talk. Why our lips form words and words form sentences and sentences form arguments. Everything we say is an argument in one way or another, that goes hand in hand with words having a purpose. Again in the corner, quiet with no words; no purpose or argument to be made. No hand to raise or answer to be given. There was no purpose to it all, the answering, the questioning, sitting in this room confined to a chair and a strict standard of learning. Just to be a cog in an endless machine of capitalism, or socialism, or society.

She would probably go to her next period after this and then the next after that with no real perception of the purpose, constantly drowning in the monotonous environment she had but no choice to integrate into. She could home-school, but that would just delay her integration or give her a false sense of individuality. Maybe in 5 or 10 years she’ll be successful in others eyes, a doctor with the purpose of giving life to others or a critic slowly taking others away, but all with purpose. Not to iterate what many already know, but purpose drives people giving them something to believe in; it's why religion is so popular, why one's career becomes a part of their personality.

But what really is purpose? What gives it, what becomes of it, where does it get us? To the end obviously, but what end and when is the end what's the purpose of living the same life millions live identically. Define your own success and tell me what impact it will have in 10 years, then 20, then 100 and on. What's pushing us forward, why do we as humans strive to consistently be better and develop and develop to what end. You don’t know and neither does the girl.

Oblivious to the greater purpose and flow of time she sat. Tapping her toes and flexing her fingers, her mind clear of thoughts that plague ones purpose and questions human existence. In 10 years she’ll be a doctor, probably. Maybe helping those who make differences and affect the future, like a president or astounding author; all the while still pushing forward to be better. Maybe to make more money, or save more lives, or whatever the hell she's telling herself to convince that push forwards.

It’s the same as everyone in this classroom, humid yet dry. The air felt like rain and winter. Coats shuffled and pencils scratched as the teacher stood idly in front of the rows of students, every so often checking if everyone had finished writing then flipping the slide. Maybe if the students would look at the window and rain they’d understand. Or maybe they’d misinterpret, thinking that the beating rain was tuned to them and the fast flow at which they strive for success. The rain really doesn’t stop or go for anyone, sometimes it just rains and sometimes it just doesn’t and nothing we can do as humans will ever break that endless cycle.

We as a race are deeply obsessed with ourselves thinking as the ever present center of reality. That reality is defined by the the monotonous rain that yields for no one, so we discard that and make reality about our perception of things and the tangible. Sitting in this classroom, mindlessly copying words in an attacking white light; that was reality. Sitting at home, seeing things in a slower motion as your intoxicated brain tried to understand what it was seeing; that was not reality.

But it’s all in the world right? Isn’t that reality, the universe and every thing, emotion, and sensation in it? No, or at least no to those who believed that the girl sitting in the classroom needed a harsh dose of reality. To be told that as a doctor she won’t be able to lay around like she does at home, ignorant of the miserable fast food job she drudges through for money she can’t even spend. Told that medical school is harder than you think, ignorant towards the 7 AP classes she takes for that 5.0 GPA.

But what do these numbers matter for again? The girl that sat tapping her fingers and flexing her toes could only answer with “to get into college” or “to be more prepared for college”, never beyond that. Catered to in a generation that thinks of rebellion as a school scheduled walk out where they are marked absent for one period; that thinks of Oscar Wilde as the epitome of rebellious text to this day.

But isn’t rebellion-God it was terrible here. These thoughts that don't disease their minds, these thoughts that made others face how horrible everyday is rather than let them be complacent like them.

They all tuned these thoughts out and began to write mindlessly, praying for the repetitive complacency to overtake them, just like the girl.