I love to file. Something about the monotonous motions clear my mind. The alphabet runs circles in my head, and my fingers fly through piles of paper, nimbly placing each document in its shiny metal cabinet. No one knows this, and no one would guess. My locker overflows with old papers, empty spirals, broken pencils, and my bedroom is a disaster. The preciseness, the order does not come naturally to me, yet I crave it. I want to classify the universe—put each question away in shiny metal cabinets. I’m sick of writing the world off as a mystery. I long to explore, and more, I long to understand. Someday, I’ll be able to conquer my pile of papers, my never ending questions, my curiosity. I’ll take a shot at the impossible, and when I can classify no more, I will be so much farther than I am today.