A/N: Okay, I think this can be interpreted in different ways. When you're
done reading it, tell me which Animorph's POV you think it's from. Thanks!
Opaque Clearness
"I need you to fill out some information about yourself," The counselor said cheerily, the joyful smile never leaving her face. She passed out the sheets of paper with questions on them, and with a sigh I began to read.
Who are you?
If you could describe yourself in one word, what would it be, and why?
What is your favorite food?
What is your favorite color?
Are your parents married or divorced?
It went on, asking personal questions, until the very end. There, slapped down almost like a joke, was the classic question:
Is the glass half empty or half full?
I looked around the room and saw most of the kids snickering a little when they read it. They smiled, exchanged mocking glances with their friends, and went back to start filling in the rest of the questions. But not me. I sat there, staring down at the question.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
It was amazing how that one question threw everything into perspective. Suddenly the brightly lit room became dark and grey. It was as if the false front had been thrown off and cold, harsh reality had shown its face once again.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
My eyes glazed over the words, one by one. In the old days, the innocent days, before the war, I would have been able to answer the question easily. I would have written "half full," without even thinking twice. But now, I couldn't do that. Because it wasn't true.
But at the same time, I couldn't write down "half empty," either. In my mind, the question was wrong. The question had clumped everything together as either one or the other. It was either good or bad. There was nothing in between.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
In real life, there was something in between. You couldn't be all good or all bad. You were hovering, treading carefully somewhere between that line, shifting your weight more towards one side, but never completely crossing the line. We were all somewhere on that line, but no one was completely fully on one side. Most of us were somewhere lost in the middle.
And some of us were just lost.
That was the group I was in. The lost people. The people who didn't know which side was the good side and which side was the bad side. The people who were bad when they were trying to be good, and vice versa. We were the people whose idea of bad could be good, and who when being good could bring about badness.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
It's neither, I thought sadly. The glass was shattered into a million jagged pieces, never again to be joined again. The pieces were scattered on the floor, carefully avoided, until they were finally picked up again and dumped into a trash can.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
It was such a simple question. On the outside it seemed so clear, so straightforward. But it wasn't. On the inside it was cold, cruel, calculating. The question wasn't asking you to simply describe the cup. It had an ulterior motive, one that it kept concealed behind it's false front.
The question scared me. It scared me not because if I put the wrong answer I could wind up in the counselor's office. It scared me because of all the layers it had. It scared me because it wasn't what it appeared to be.
It scared me because...it was like me.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Such simple words, I thought to myself wryly as the bell rang, and the counselor called out for us to hand her our papers. With the bell came the false front again. The school was once again a safe, bright, place, with kids chattering and teachers reprimanding. The coldness was covered up. Yes, it was covered. It wasn't gone, because it would come back again. It was always there, lurking, hidden undercover.
As I walked out of the classroom, I thought of the question one more time. And in my head, I answered it.
The glass was overflowing. It was overflowing with emptiness.
Opaque Clearness
"I need you to fill out some information about yourself," The counselor said cheerily, the joyful smile never leaving her face. She passed out the sheets of paper with questions on them, and with a sigh I began to read.
Who are you?
If you could describe yourself in one word, what would it be, and why?
What is your favorite food?
What is your favorite color?
Are your parents married or divorced?
It went on, asking personal questions, until the very end. There, slapped down almost like a joke, was the classic question:
Is the glass half empty or half full?
I looked around the room and saw most of the kids snickering a little when they read it. They smiled, exchanged mocking glances with their friends, and went back to start filling in the rest of the questions. But not me. I sat there, staring down at the question.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
It was amazing how that one question threw everything into perspective. Suddenly the brightly lit room became dark and grey. It was as if the false front had been thrown off and cold, harsh reality had shown its face once again.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
My eyes glazed over the words, one by one. In the old days, the innocent days, before the war, I would have been able to answer the question easily. I would have written "half full," without even thinking twice. But now, I couldn't do that. Because it wasn't true.
But at the same time, I couldn't write down "half empty," either. In my mind, the question was wrong. The question had clumped everything together as either one or the other. It was either good or bad. There was nothing in between.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
In real life, there was something in between. You couldn't be all good or all bad. You were hovering, treading carefully somewhere between that line, shifting your weight more towards one side, but never completely crossing the line. We were all somewhere on that line, but no one was completely fully on one side. Most of us were somewhere lost in the middle.
And some of us were just lost.
That was the group I was in. The lost people. The people who didn't know which side was the good side and which side was the bad side. The people who were bad when they were trying to be good, and vice versa. We were the people whose idea of bad could be good, and who when being good could bring about badness.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
It's neither, I thought sadly. The glass was shattered into a million jagged pieces, never again to be joined again. The pieces were scattered on the floor, carefully avoided, until they were finally picked up again and dumped into a trash can.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
It was such a simple question. On the outside it seemed so clear, so straightforward. But it wasn't. On the inside it was cold, cruel, calculating. The question wasn't asking you to simply describe the cup. It had an ulterior motive, one that it kept concealed behind it's false front.
The question scared me. It scared me not because if I put the wrong answer I could wind up in the counselor's office. It scared me because of all the layers it had. It scared me because it wasn't what it appeared to be.
It scared me because...it was like me.
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Such simple words, I thought to myself wryly as the bell rang, and the counselor called out for us to hand her our papers. With the bell came the false front again. The school was once again a safe, bright, place, with kids chattering and teachers reprimanding. The coldness was covered up. Yes, it was covered. It wasn't gone, because it would come back again. It was always there, lurking, hidden undercover.
As I walked out of the classroom, I thought of the question one more time. And in my head, I answered it.
The glass was overflowing. It was overflowing with emptiness.
