Aug. 29, 2012 – 10:48 p.m.
Today, after sitting in room 3021 of Knight Hall for nine hours, I had a revelation. Today, I didn’t do anything important. I made no contribution to the world, but I felt important. I worked all day on the computer with two girls trying to transform a presidential-candidate-contribution database into a map, divided by zip code. It was so difficult, and we couldn’t finish it in time, and something along the way went wrong. But I felt important.
I think that is why people want to love and be loved so much. Because finally they are no longer floating in the space. They have found what’s important, and it is enough. Finally, they know that all they have to care about is right there. They can see it and touch it and be with it. They are not alone. And they feel important. Today I was in a room, a speck of dust, doing something that would not be released or seen but I was with people, close together, doing something together, and I felt there – I was present and involved. That’s all anyone wants – to matter and not feel like the tiny hair on the back of the beast they live in. We want to be noticed, to be somewhere where we feel something else is. Today I was seen and heard by a roomful of people, and then I came home and made my mother laugh really hard and my dad smile and say, “You know, it’s really nice having you around. It’s really lovely.” And for once, it was enough.