We Can't Afford Not To Turn Back Into Pumpkins

I remember the road trip to Florida.
We took two different roads but met in the middle.
And when we finally arrived at Disney World, it was clear we’d found the happily ever after we’d both been looking for.
The thing about the happiest place in the world though, is that it’s got to close sometime.
And the park-hopper passes, they cost money.
You can’t pay your way to happiness with credit forever; that’s how our country ended up in this mess in the first place.
Yes, at a certain point, even Cinderella’s feet begin to blister and she’s got to take the glass slipper off.
Dumbo’s ears get tired and he’s got to stop flying.
Tinkerbell runs out of pixie dust and she can’t go out and buy more-at least not until pay day.
We watch wistfully as Ariel trades in her feet for flippers again-you can take the girl out of the ocean but you can’t take the ocean out of the girl-that’s what they say isn’t it?
We want to go back for just one more ride on Space Mountain but they’ve shut off all the stars.
We walk through the gate and let go of each other’s hands-our tickets have expired, the park has shut down, and the way back home is split into two different roads.
You try to buy us more time but you don’t have the means, and no, you can’t pay your way through a relationship with credit; that’s how we got into this mess in the first place.

Allergic to Normalcy
After almost twenty one years of living on this planet, I’ve finally come to the realization that I am allergic to any sort of normal life. The End. Period. But, for the sake of comprehension, let me back up a minute. See, the reason why I feel the need to say this now is a complicated mixture of things, starting with the fact that in the past week, I have skipped two Spanish classes, one expository writing class, and have left early from my philosophy class twice. The reason for my skipping class is also a complicated concoction of reasons. These reasons include the fact that I’m either allergic to half the foods that I enjoy most, i.e. anything with refined sugar, flour, or gluten, or I have diabetes which would suck even worse. The reasons for my absences also include the fact that every now and then I wake up and I just don’t give a shit, which is a direct result of opening my eyes every morning to my mother’s guitar sitting in the corner of my room, but no matter how hard I look, I never find the mother that’s supposed to go along with it. Also, when it rains, I could really give a shit, because adding to my lack of normalcy is the fact that my moods are controlled at least 75% by the weather. Mix in a severe food allergy of some sort with a depression induced “I don’t give a shit” attitude and you’ve got a lot of missed classes. But hey, the missed classes are just tiny pieces of why I feel like I am allergic to any sort of normal life.
Let’s go back to the food allergy thing for a minute. My entire life I have been addicted to junk food. I love it. Sugar and fat are the yin and yang of my world. But lately, I haven’t been feeling too great after eating junk food. Regardless, I always crave more, so I always eat more, despite the fact that I’ve gained, oh, about fifteen pounds this winter. Anyway, like I said, I haven’t been feeling too peachy after eating these sugary, crappy foods. I get headaches all the time. I’m always tired, no matter how much sleep I get. I feel dizzy and weak a lot o f the time. And I am never, ever in a good mood anymore. Then two weeks ago, my digestive system starts completely malfunctioning. So I go to the doctor. She tells me to drink a lot of water. My insurance company paid god knows how much for some broad to tell me to drink a lot of water. Now, hydration may be part of the problem, it’s true, but the main problem is that about 90% of the time I feel like at any moment one of those creatures from Alien is going to burst through my stomach. No, I’m sorry doc, but lack of hydration is simply not the answer. I want a second opinion from someone who’s not a moron.
So I tell all this information to my fiancé and he says, comfortingly, “maybe its diabetes”. Awesome. I have a family history of diabetes so that’s very plausible, except for the fact that I haven’t been losing any weight. A week later I still don’t know anything aside from the fact that I still feel like crap, so I go to the doctor again. Then she tells me to go get blood tests and hands me a pamphlet about the importance of fiber in my daily diet. I shred the pamphlet and I plan to I go get blood tests. I have to fast for twelve hours so that some nurse in a bad mood can strangle my arm in a tourniquet and drain more blood from my body than I personally believe I have to give. And all this for a woman who went to eight years of medical school to be able to figure out whether I have a food allergy, diabetes, or just a really large parasite living in my stomach. Brilliant. Its been weeks since all this craziness began, and I still don’t know shit. All I know is that I have had to cut out anything from my diet that doesn’t grow on a tree or on a bird’s chest. And after 20 years of eating nothing but sugar, the withdrawal is not treating me well. It’s getting to the point where I’d just about stab someone for a piece of chocolate.
If this doesn’t make me sound abnormal enough, let’s rewind to Monday. I wake up, get dressed, drive to school, get to Literature, and we begin our discussion on Oedipus. I can tell by the overwhelming silence of the classroom that I am one of the only people in the room who reads Greek tragedies not simply for class, but in my spare time. I mean, really, what better way is there to unwind after class than kicking back and reading Medea? Anyway, there were are in class, I raise my hand to answer a question, positive that I have the perfect answer, and I get the response “Mmmmm, kind oofff, but not really”. “Kind of but not really.” “My God”, I think to myself. “It’s happening…I’m actually getting dumber”. This may sound like an overreaction, but let me tell you something. I am not that smart and I am not a good student. I’ve always wanted to be, but have never had the patience for the conveyer belt monotony of it all. But my mother went to Cornell, her brother went to Cornell. Two of my cousins went to other Ivy League schools, and my other cousin who is literally a genius graduated high school at sixteen, moved to France, then moved to New Zealand, then went on to NYU with whom she is currently studying abroad in Ghana. However, she will no longer be attending NYU in the fall because she wants more of a “life challenge”. What, because NYU isn’t challenge enough on its own? I mean Jesus Christ. Basically what I’m trying to say here is…I’m not the brightest bulb in the box. I’m the black sheep of the family, and nobody really expects anything from me. But English…now there’s something I get. The English category is pretty much the only thing I’m good at and the only thing I really care about academically. But having my favorite professor telling me “Kind of but not really”, well, he may as well draw a big red capitalized “FAIL” on my forehead and shove me in the corner of the room with a giant cone on my head.
So, I can’t even comprehend the English language now. Great. There’s only one thing to do in this situation: cry. That’s right, I started crying in the middle of a discussion about a man who accidentally kills his father and makes babies with his mom. Nobody really notices, of course. I’ve gotten good at hiding my emotions over the years. But still, there I sit, my eyes welling up in the middle of Lit class. Well, it didn’t matter anyway, because after that class I was out of there. I had yet another a doctor’s appointment to go to on the other side of the island, so it’s not like I would be returning to class for another chance at a random sob-fest. But see there it is again. My sheer weirdness. My inability to exist on the same plane as everyone else around me. Who does that? Who starts crying in the middle of class because she missed one question? Me, just me. Because I was born in the form of nature’s practical joke.
I really think sometimes I was created when Mother Nature was drunk or something. And speaking of drunk, I can’t help but interrupt this essay to wonder if my food allergy or diabetes or black plague or whatever it is I have effect my ability to get drunk? That would suck because on the rare occasions when I do act like a normal twenty something and decide to get a little crazy with one Bud Light, it’s pretty much the only time I feel like maybe I am normal. Maybe I have the ability to be just like everybody else. Then I sober up and have a horrible hangover, and I don’t drink again for a month because I realize that one night of acting like a twenty year old, care free, idiot is not worth the migraine and/ or nausea.
But seriously, what is my mental damage? I mean, all these thoughts and feelings and all this self doubt. The constant whirring of the wheels in my head. The places my mind goes when I should be in class. None of this can be normal. I am allergic to normal. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be normal. I wonder because I do things such as the aforementioned and things like accusing my fiancé of cheating on me, even though that is nearly physically impossible because he spends every moment he is not at school or at work with me. He is completely devoted to me. He is 100% wonderful, but no matter what, I find a way to make him look like an asshole. Why? Because that’s my job. I’m pretty sure that I was put on this planet to annoy and weird people out. I do things like complaining about my weight one minute and then grabbing a doughnut the next. I always talk about how much I want to be a great student, but then I never do my homework. I talk about how adult and responsible I want to be, but, I don’t even have a job right now. I wake up late everyday. I speed even though I got a speeding ticket in August. I need sleep, but then I stay up on the computer till 4 a.m. I smoke pot when I want to be on a diet. When I want to make friends I clam up. When it’s a beautiful day, I lock myself inside to read a book. When it’s rainy I complain that I want to be outside. When I tell my father I want to be closer to him I don’t talk to him for weeks at a time. And I want to finally improve my life and change things for the better…I just turn around and screw things up again. I give up. I get lazy. I can’t. I won’t. I just don’t give a shit.
I am a living contradiction and I hate it. It would seem with all the medications and therapy and self-help books, that there must be some way to stop this never-ending circle. But I don’t know if there is. The philosopher Sartre had a theory that everything that happens in your life and even in other people’s lives is free-will. It’s all choice, and all things, good or bad, are things that you must take responsibility for. Well, I don’t know if Sartre is correct, but if he is, in his world I would be screwed. But, on the other hand, philosopher John Hospers had a theory that everything you do in your life, every decision you make, everything you do, everything you don’t, and everything you are capable of and everything you aren’t is all determined by luck. There is little free will. Some people are lucky, and some are not. Some kids are raised in a perfect household, they go to a good school, they were blessed with an active personality with a “never give up” attitude. Some kids…aren’t. Some kids’ mothers die. Some kids fuck up in school because they’re depressed and don’t have the willpower or energy to deal with life. Some kids are lazy. And some kids are just too tired to not give up. So, I could theorize my life and personality the John Hospers way. None of these quirks or fuck ups are entirely my fault. It’s all just luck. It’s just how I am and there’s nothing I can do about it. But if I live with that kind of attitude, then what? Do I settle with all the things I hate about myself and that’s it? Do I never strive for better? Am I doomed for the rest of my life to be an abnormal, introverted, mess of life just because some fucked up things happened to me? I really don’t want it to be that way. I want to be better, and I want my life to be happy and filled with good things. But, if I choose to live that way that means I’m responsible for all the bad things in my life too. And I’m just not sure I’m ready to handle that.

The Soul Purpose

The Soul Purpose

Though J. K. Rowling may not be the great philosopher that Plato once was, she is a woman wise beyond her world. Her illustration of the soul based on her description of horcruxes is comparable with that of Plato’s own view. Though Rowling seems to write as more of a dualist, and Plato as much more a spiritualist, some similar points are made by both about the soul. In both Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, horcruxes play a very important role in the description of soul and mortality. In Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Tom Riddle coerces Professor Slughorn into sharing information about the workings of Horcruxes. Professor Slughorn explains that existence in the form of a split soul, or horcruxes, would be a very evil and undesirable existence. “Few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.” (497) Lord Voldemort, however, would clearly not prefer death. His main goal is power and therefore sees nothing wrong with abusing his soul in the name of attaining that power.

In Plato’s view, that abuse of the soul is highly detrimental. “If the soul is really immortal, what care should be taken of her, not only in respect of the portion of time which is called life, but of eternity!” (Phaeto). For one to find purity and truth, the flow of life and death cannot be interrupted. The act of prolonging life is looked upon as pointless, and fear of death is deemed ridiculous. Fear of death, is, of course, Voldemort’s entire motivation behind creating his horcruxes. He feels the opposite of how J. K. Rowling and Plato view the soul; his soul has little worth, but as long as he is physically present he believes he has the most important type of power.

Voldemort believes what neither Rowling nor Plato does; that his evil separation of the soul with has no consequence. It does, of course, take a toll on him physically and otherwise. In The Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore explains that so many separations of the soul may be the cause for the change in his physical appearance. “Lord Voldemort has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he has undergone seemed to me to be only explicable if his soul was mutilated beyond the realms of what we might call ‘usual evil’” (502). Although Voldemort regarded his physical presence on Earth with more importance than the well-being of his soul, the books back up Plato’s theory, that the main importance lies within the soul, and that the body is a mere vessel. “When the soul and the body are united, then nature orders the soul to rule and govern, and the body to obey and serve” (Phaeto).

Voldemort’s ideas of separating soul from body greatly contradict Plato’s views on separation of soul and body. Where Voldemort seeks to literally separate his soul into many, many parts, in order to keep just a small, miserable portion of his physical self in existence, Plato views the separation of soul and body as a very wonderful, nondestructive thing. “And then the foolishness of the body will be cleared away and we shall be pure” (Phaeto).

In The Deathly Hallows, when Harry is “killed” by Voldemort and is at King’s Cross station, a whimpering, weak, repulsive animal, which seems to represent Voldemort’s soul, lies near Harry. Although Harry would like to help, Dumbledore tells him “You cannot help” (707). This image shows that Rowling’s view is that, through evil, even the soul can be destroyed, which is the complete opposite of Plato’s view that while the body can be destroyed, the soul cannot. “The soul is in the very likeness of the divine, and immortal, and intelligible, and uniform, and indissoluble, and unchangeable; and the body is in the very likeness of the human, and changeable” (Phaeto). Though Rowling paints the portrait that human life and the soul are tied together, for Voldemort would have ceased to exist had he not split his soul into many parts, Plato insists that the soul is entirely free and separate of body, and that all life came from souls that existed before, and which will exist again after departing from the body. “We arrive at the interference that the living come from the dead, just as the dead come from the living; and if this is true, then the souls of the dead must be in some place out of which they come again” (Phaeto).

Rowling and Plato do share a similarity as far as good and evil goes, however. Though Voldemort’s soul does not seem to outlast his life, the “death” of his soul at King’s Cross seems to be a very slow and painful one, in return for the abuse of it. “And the danger of neglecting her from this point of view does appear to be awful” (Phaeto). Though Voldemort, along with his soul do die, and it is at last the end for him, which is contrary to Plato’s belief of the immortal soul, neither he or his soul escape his life without some form of punishment for his evil. “If death had only been the end of all, the wicked would have had a good bargain in dying, for they would have been happily quit not only of their body, but of their own evil together with their souls” (Phaeto). Voldemort’s soul does wither, but that in no way means he has been relieved of the evil he caused throughout his life.

The soul is a complex idea that deserves much exploring. Both Plato and Rowling do this in their own ways. No one may ever be certain of what the soul is or how long it lasts. No one may ever agree exactly on their ideas of what the soul is and what its existence entails, but ideas do often cross and collide and create new, shared ideas, giving the soul new meaning and all the more reason to be explored.

My Religion

I know next to nothing about religion. I don't even have a religion. I wasn't even really given a religion at birth. I'm not an atheist or anything, it's just that religion has never played much of a role in my life, and yet it seems to be what has shaped my life. I was born to my mother, Marilyn Ross, and my father Ed Poteet. They were hippies and I think that's excellent. Our house was simple but beautiful, always filled with flowers and music. I remember being young, spinning aimlessly around my living room as children of that age sometimes do, and being surrounded by the smell of lilacs and the sound of Bob Dylan, or the scent of roses and the vibrations of Beethoven, or the simple air of baby's breath and the sweet softness of the Beatles, or Judy Collins, of show-tunes, or Sinatra. That was what I knew from the time I was born up until about middle school when the education system started subliminally weaving religion into my life. I knew music and nature and simplicity and happiness. Religion was of no real import.Of course, that's not to say that my family and I didn't celebrate our share of holidays. In fact, that's basically the only thing I got out of religion as a kid; celebration. We celebrated Christmas, Hanukkah, Halloween, Passover, Easter, Yom Kippur; you name it, we celebrated it, but only in the Hallmark card, paper Mache decorations, over-sized plastic reindeer on our front lawn kind of way. Religious values not included. Christmas was about Santa and presents, Hanukkah was about dreidel, a menorah, and more presents, Easter was about a man in a giant bunny suit and a basket full of Peeps, and all the other holidays were pretty much about getting dressed up, eating a lot, or both. Sometimes we watched the Ten Commandments, or sang a traditional song around the menorah. I vaguely knew the biblical Christmas story, and was somehow or another eventually introduced to the improbable story of Adam and Eve, but aside from that, the bible, prayer, and god were all tucked away in very remote parts of my mind and existence. You see, my mother was raised Jewish, but as a kid she always wanted a Christmas tree, and even attempted to decorate her house with candy canes, which didn't fly too well with her mother, who in light of World War II, was so attached to Judaism, that she was even offended by the image of angels. Now my father was raised Christian. When I say Christian, try to imagine the perfect 1950s image of a blond haired, blue-eyed, fair skinned little boy, dressed in a sailor suit, who never so much as folded his napkin the wrong way at supper time. That was my father. He was the gentile of gentiles but as soon as the effects of the 60s kicked in, he just kind of forgot about the existence of religion altogether. So here's this feminist hippy Jew who's burning her bra at Cornell, and this meandering ex-christian hippy who's just kind of hitch-hiking through life and trying make some money for himself and eventually they find each other, marry, and decide to procreate. My mom being who she was, refused to give up her last name just because it was in some ancient rule book that a lady should do so, and my parents as a couple, being what they were, saw no reason why their children could not share both of their last names. Hence my not so complicated last name that no one can figure out simply because it's interrupted by a hyphen. So they could share last names, but what about religion? Well it seemed to work out perfectly that neither one of my parents really believed in their birth-given faiths, so they just decided: To hell with it! No religion! The kids can choose for themselves. But no one wants to give up an excuse to have a party, so they kept the holidays but ditched the prayers, worship, and all that other un-fun stuff. While my friends were at church on Sunday morning, I was eating a nice big pancake breakfast with my family, and listening to the radio. While my friends were stuck in religion class, I was playing with my Barbies or getting beat up by my brother. My friends had their communions, I was oblivious to the fact that such a thing even existed. My friends had confirmations, I had no idea what that was, nor did I care. My cousins had bar mitzvahs and bah mitzvahs and my brother and I didn't. We never went to church or synagogue, or temple or anything like that. The only times my family and I ever stepped foot inside a “House of God”, as others called them, were for weddings, funerals, and other family get-togethers that required them. I was glad for this, being that these "Houses of God" scared the shit out of me. They were always so big and intimidating, and the stained glass windows always obstructed the warmth of the natural sunlight. They were always so quiet and dark, and as far as churches went, I could not for the life of me understand the thought process behind hanging up giant images of the miserable looking man with the beard, who I later found out was bloody, lifeless, and nailed to that cross. All in all, these places scared me, so I avoided them as often as possible, which isn't that difficult when you don't have a religion. When the topic of religion did happen to come up, and people wanted to know what religion I was, I or my parents would tell people I was "half and half", meaning half-jewish, half-christian, but in reality, I wasn't. I just celebrated the holidays as if they were big birthday parties for everyone. Everyone was celebrating and celebrated. Everyone got food, everyone got a gift, and nobody treated it religiously or formally at all. To be quite honest, my lack of knowledge of god, prayer, religion, and the bible, was always something that I sort of prided myself on. I was not only free of religion classes and having other people's beliefs thrust upon me, but I also had the sense that this made me different from most people in a way that I was very fond of. It was my most treasured pride and joy that no god, no prayer, no book could define me. My lack of religion, and especially my ignorance of the bible, was something not many other people could attain. I am not the sort to define ignorance as a good thing, but from what I had observed, religion did nothing but tear people apart, and the bible did nothing but stop people from forming ideas of their own. Religion was the cause of ignorance, not the lack of it. I had experienced that ignorance first-hand when I came home from Disney World one year at the age of eight to find my house covered with the words "Fuck Jews" and "Go Home Jews" and tainted with swastikas and other symbols of hate. So up until I got a bit older, I considered my "ignorance" to be my greatest knowledge. After my mother died however, I was embittered and began to question everything. When I wanted to speak to her, I had no prayers to recite, and no church or temple in which to pray. I had no rules, no restrictions, no commandments; I had nothing to follow. Seeing my very convincing lost lamb impression, my Christian friend, Sarah, herded me to her youth group. It was one of the scariest experiences of my life. Everyone closed their eyes, and lifted their arms to the sky and praised Jesus! According to my mother's religion, Jesus was just some dude who spun the dreidel along with all the other jews, so why were they all praising him? Aside from that question, I had many others like, Why is it a sin for teens to have sex if they're safe about it? Why am I going to go to hell if I decide to have a lazy day? What is so poisonous about loving someone of the same sex? Why did all these people have the exact same opinions on these topics? Why did they all appear to be in some sort of a trance? Why did this place seem more like a cult than a church? and Where was the nearest door? Needless to say, I never went back to youth group, and I never became a christian.
After my questionable experience at youth group, I looked into my jewish roots to see if they provided me with any comfort, but upon discovering I would have had to give up many things, such as Hawaiian pizza, in order to remain kosher and devout, no comfort was found. I found that sacrifice was a key ingredient in most, if not all, religions. It didn't make sense to me. Why should I give up the things I enjoy in order to enrich my life or to be blessed or to be saved? It seemed completely counterintuitive. After looking into the more unorthodox religions, such as wicca, but finding these religions seemed either a bit too out there, or a bit too contrived, I gave up and declared myself an atheist. That lasted about a week, when I realized that not only was I was failing math and found myself praying to whatever it was out there to help me pass, but that atheism was quite the paradoxical entity being that this un-religion was a religion based on the fact that it provided a belief system to be followed, which is a simple one mainly stating that there is no god, still, it’s a belief system. I felt a totally lost, and felt that maybe my parents should have given me something to put my faith in when life got rough, as it often does. So I turned back for a brief period of time to Christianity. I didn't go to church or anything, but I planned to...eventually, and I discovered some christian rock bands that weren’t totally abysmal. I kind of dug some of Switchfoot's music and admired them for an unyielding faith that I could never even imagine attaining. Yet, I just could not convince myself to agree with this religion one hundred percent, and I simply wouldn't negotiate my morals for the sake of being able to plop myself in the midst of one particular sect. Aside from that, I often found that my childhood observations had been correct; religion often tore people apart. My friend Sarah and I were no longer friends, and even though it was seldom talked about, we both knew the underlying cause was our religious differences. So again, I ditched religion and chalked it up to my idea that there was something out there that I couldn't explain, some force or something, and though that something was probably just the forces of nature or the Universe or whatever you want to call it and not a sentient being, there was something; and to me, that's all there probably ever will be. Twenty years later it's still just nature and music and happiness. The simplicity is lost most of the time, because that's just how life is, but the happiness is still there. I remain proud of my lack of knowledge of prayer, god, formal religion, and the bible, and rather choose to celebrate the religion of life. However, as an English major, I am finding myself more and more frequently to be missing out on many of the points of great works of literature or poetry. So consider this; do I read the bible and destroy what I pride myself on, or do I remain ignorant to what, in the mind of an English professor, is just one of the many great works of literature? To be honest, it probably doesn't matter either way because a book is just a book, religion is what you make it, and mine is made out of life, love, nature, and happiness. Every day is a holy day, therefore everyday should be celebrated.

The Philosophy of Emily Adison

Caitlin Ross-Poteet

The Philosophy of Emily Adison

Emily Adison stepped daintily on to Friedrich Street. It was a day that only God him/her/itself could dream into creation. Or maybe, it simply was a dream, who could tell for sure? And who/what is this God character anyway? Well, Emily thought she knew, and she asked him why he would create such a gray, rainy day. But, in any case, Emily Adison stepped, nay, skipped, well maybe it was more of a hop? Well, to be fair, it could have looked different to different people. Whatever it was that she did, it landed her in the middle of Friedrich Street. Poor Emily Adison. She never saw that hospital car coming.
Emily Adison felt….unreal. “Perhaps”, she thought, “I am unreal. If I feel unreal, that must mean I am unreal musn’t it?” She pondered this for a bit. Or perhaps, you would prefer the word “explored”? No? Maybe then “consider”. She considered this? Or if that does not satisfy you, perhaps muse, mull over, puzzle, contemplate, ruminate, or percolate will? Or if even these do not fit your fancy, perhaps you can use a word in another language that serves this meaning, or, oh! Even more fun, you can make up your own word! After all, it cannot be nonsense if you give meaning to it! Can it? Well, I’ll revotillum (that’s “mull it over” backwards! See now, isn’t this fun?!), and while I do that, you choose a word to use, and whatever that word is, Emily did it, and in doing so had a small revelation.
“Wait!” thought Emily, “If I am thinking I am unreal, I am doing something, so I can not be unreal then can I?!” This was the conclusion Emily Adison came to. A rather good conclusion; doesn’t mean it’s true, nonetheless, she came to it and she stuck with it momentarily.
Feeling her eyes rolling underneath her lids, or what seemed at the time, like her eyes rolling underneath her eyelids, Emily decided that now that she had figured out she existed, she should start to function again, and she would start with opening her eyes. This is when all Hell broke lose. Or perhaps you don’t believe in Hell, so for you it would just be hell, or heck, or something that represents a poor situation that you would not want to find yourself in. Maybe you don’t like clowns. So, for you it would be “if a circus broke loose” or “Timmy’s 6th birthday party broke loose” (who’s Timmy?). That would be the general idea. But not the absolute idea, because you can never be too sure that anything is absolute, because in being absolute that leaves no room for change, and if you find one day that things are not absolutely as you thought them to be, you would be forced to stick by your absolute belief even if it was almost absolutely wrong and that would lead to ignorance, absolutely. Well, not absolutely…In any case…
Emily Adison opened her eyes to see…nothing. Nothing but white. Although I suppose you could argue that white isn’t nothing, but aside from that, she saw nothing. Of course that depends on your definition of nothing, because if to you nothing really means something and something really means nothing, then the nothing plus white that Emily saw, to you, could mean everything! But again, Emily saw nothing. She saw only the blinding white nothing (or something) and felt a great heat upon her face, or what she hoped was still her face, for, at the moment she could not see it so she was not quite sure. Even if she could have seen her face, who was to say that it was no more than an illusion? Emily realized at once what this must mean.
“Oh my!” she cried as (her) reality slowly settled in. “Bright lights?! Great warmth?! I’m dead aren’t I?!” she exclaimed as the image of the hospital car rushing towards her gradually returned to the forefront of her cranium (which is odd, seeing as how this image had never been there in the first place).
Then, rising from the highest, purest peak of the Heavens (since this is where Emily thought she must be if she really were dead; I won’t argue because I don’t want to start trouble), came a voice.
“Emily Adison?” thundered the gracious yet powerful voice.
“Yes?” replied Emily. “God, is that you, God?”
There came a slight pause and then again the deep voice spoke.
“Well, I don’t know. I mean, you sound so excited, so, in the interest of keeping you cheerful, why don’t we just say I am?”
Emily Adison fumbled for words for a moment. And I do mean fumble. There is no replacing this word. I mean if you could have seen this girl fumble…anyway, Emily tried to gather herself.
“W-what?” was all she was able to spit out.
“Well” responded the voice, “I mean, you just seemed so excited to meet God, so the pragmatic solution to this would be to say ‘yes, I’m God, what can I do for you today?’”
Again, Emily fumbled, but less so, so go ahead find another word, same meaning, have a field day, or whatever you associate with fun. Have one of those.
Throughout her new experience, Emily had started out scared, then had become excited. Now, however, she was just getting angry, and Emily Adison was not the type of girl who wanted to be angry with God. From what little she had seen, or, erm, felt, she liked Heaven, and she had no intention of leaving on account of God being stubborn.
“Look”, she said, sounding a bit less angelic than she previously had, “all I want to know is, are you God, or aren’t you, is this Heaven or isn’t it, and am I dead or aren’t I?”
The voice seemed to consider these questions for a moment and with a deep and dignified breath it spoke: “Yes. Yes, Emily Adison, Yes”.
The room, Emily felt, was grower warmer by the minute, and if she had a face, she was certain it was growing redder.
With clenched something or others (because without a face can one have teeth?) she replied “Yes, what?!”
“I am whatever you think I am.”
“WHAT?!” shrieked Emily. “What does that even mean? That is nonsense! Alright, I want to know what is going on, and I want to know now! If you’re not God, then who are you and how do you know my name?!”
“I never said I wasn’t God”
“What?” snapped Emily.
“I never said I wasn’t God, you assumed. And as for knowing your name, well, what is your name?”
“What’s my name?” she said in disbelief. “Why, you just said it, it’s Emily Adison, EMILY ADISON!!!”
The voice responded quite calmly, “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure what?”
“Are you sure that Emily Adison is your name?”
“Of course I’m sure!”
“Prove it.”
“Wha- prove it?! It’s on my birth certificate but-”
“Your birth certificate? Well how does that prove that Emily Adison is your name?”
“How?” How. Emily paused for a moment. “Well, because it’s in print, and…it’s a certificate. That means something doesn’t it?”
“Oh does it?” asked the voice with pure fascination. “Well, now I’m rather interested! Do tell me what it means!” Again, Emily paused.
“Well I-I don’t actually know really. I guess I was always just sort of under the impression that it meant something because people, my parents, told me it did”
“Your parents?”
“Yes, my pare-My parents!” Emily cried. “That is how I know my name is Emily Adison! My parents gave that name to me, they called me that my entire life, and it’s what everyone has known me by my entire life, so it has to be my name!”
“Oh, does it?”
“Oh, what do you mean ‘does it’? Of course it does! That is the name that people know me by, that is the name that I respond to, therefore it is my name.”
“Well if Emily Adison is your name simply because you respond to it, then what if you didn’t hear someone when they called your name? Someone called your name, and you didn’t respond to it, so it obviously can’t be your name anymore. ” Emily was stumped. The voice was right. “Something can only have meaning if you give it meaning”. Emily had a vague feeling that, if the voice could smile, it was probably doing so now.
“So…I don’t have a name? I don’t have an identity? Then who am I? I mean, who was I? Am I? Was I? Am I a Was I?” Emily was growing increasingly confused and increasingly frustrated. “Where am I?! What is this?!” she exclaimed at last.
“This is whatever you want it to be” said the voice. “You are wherever you want to be. You are whoever you want to be. Your reality is only…”
“what I decide it to be” finished Emily. Suddenly the bright nothingness grew brighter and brighter and brighter and brighter still. She pushed her mind forward.
“Ohhhhh” sighed Emily. “I see” she cooed as she began to make out a blur of the faint figure before her. She made out a white robe…
“Do you?” the voice questioned her.
“No, I don’t think I do. But if I think I don’t at least I’m doing something, meaning that I exist, and in existing and doing something and that something being merely thinking and not knowing, that leaves room for change, possibility, uncertainty, and relativity.”
“So…” prompted the voice.
“…So…by knowing thinking I know nothing I will always have the possibility of learning all! You are God!!!” Emily exclaimed. “Oh I knew it, I knew it! Only God could bring such a Truth to my blind eyes!”
“Oh Emily Adison” came the mournful reply. “Have I taught you nothing?” And everything went dark.
“Emily! Emily! Emily Adison can you hear me?!” This voice was not so soothing as the one that had left her. At last Emily physically opened her eyes and saw…a middle aged man in aqua scrubs and a long white lab coat.
“Hi, Emily” he said with a smile. “Welcome back. I’m Dr. Rene, I’ve been taking care of you while you were out. You gave us quite a scare there, skipper. Do you remember what happened at all?” Emily looked around at the blinding white hospital around her. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lights.
Thought Emily. And then, just as it had before, it all came back to her. The hospital car colliding with her body. Or at least, it had appeared to. The rushing car was the last thing she remembered seeing. She looked at Dr. Rene. The long white lab coat. That was it. It was all just an elaborate dream, Emily realized.
“Yea, I think I remember” Emily responded finally. “I was hit. By a hospital car ironically enough.”
Dr. Rene chuckled. “Yes well, we had a bit of an issue with one of our patients down in the psychiatric ward…” He cleared his throat nervously.
“Problem?” Emily thought she might be understanding, but thought there could be no possible way…but as Emily should have learned, there is almost always a possible way…
“Well to be honest, Emily” Dr. Rene began nervously, “this little accident of yours was a sort of a saving grace for our hospital”
“Oh yea, well whatever I can do to help” Emily said politely, not really knowing how else to respond to the fact that Dr. Rene seemed quite appreciative of her near-death incident.
“Yep”, said Dr. Rene, “if it weren’t for you that psych patient might still be out there, on the run with our car! Haha!” His chuckles quickly faded as if he knew that this really wasn’t funny at all. “But because the accident happened and the police showed up and everything, he was identified and brought back here. In fact he should be on his way to the psychiatric wing right now…”
Dr. Rene’s voice faded away and was soon replaced by a deeper, booming, thunderous voice…
“I know the Truth!” it boomed “I climbed from the inside out and beyond the shadows I have seen the Truth!” They must know that we can never know by climbing towards the light! That is the only solution. That is the only way to find the Truth!!!”
The voice grew louder until at last two strapping hospital security guards passed attempting to sedate an old man, wearing a long white hospital gown, who was flailing about uncontrollably. And for a moment, or maybe for a million years, or possibly for the length of the creation of an entire universe, or perhaps for no time at all, the voice was given a face as Emily Adison looked deep into the old man’s eyes. He fell quiet and still for just a moment. “Emily Adison! Emily Adison! You must see the light! So close Emily Adison! So close! Keep climbing Emily Adison and you shall know!!! Meet me at Friedrich Street seven days from forever and you shall learn the Truth!”
Dr. Rene stood silent for a moment or two, then cleared his throat again, laughed nervously and said “Now, where did I put your chart?”
Emily looked at him in disbelief. “I don’t know, Dr. Rene, where did you put my chart?”
“Um, i-it must be h-here…” he stuttered “I mean, I’m the doctor, so that means I’ve got to have that clipboard around here somewhere…uh, doesn’t it?”
Emily raised one eyebrow at Dr. Rene. “Oh does it?”

In some world, on some sort of day, seven days after now, or then, or never or forever, Emily Adison stepped, or lept, or did whatever your mind will say she did, to arrive on Friedrich Street. Poor Emily Adison never saw that hospital car coming, probably because it didn’t come. Regardless of what she did not see, Emily Adison heard a voice.

A Letter to Christopher Mayer

Dear Chris, How are things? I know we haven't talked in a while, but I just wanted to write this to say I hate you. This may seem out of the blue, but for the life of me I would not be able to figure out why you would think that it was anything but the case. I don't think I ever truly knew what hatred was until I met you, and dated you, and got my heart broken by you, was ignored by you, defiled and degraded by you, fucked up my entire life for YOU. I have been a complete and absolute mess since high school because of you. I have denied it, and neglected it, and buried it, time, and time, and time again You are the reason I broke up with an amazing guy. You are the reason I let myself be degraded and belittled. You are the reason I was in some of the worst relationships with people i didn't even like. You are the reason I couldn't hold on to any relationship for more than a few months. You were the inspiration behind my treating other people like crap. You were the inspiration behind acting like nothing more than a burlesque dancer around you and your crew. You are the inspiration behind ever night I got too fucked up. You were the inspiration behind every guy I just couldn't say "no" to. You were the inspiration behind every drug, every drink, every stupid, selfish, life-threatening risk I took. You were the inspiration behind every item of clothing I stripped. You were the inspiration behind every tear I cried. You were the inspiration for every self-destructive act I ever put upon myself. You took my innocence away, and when I told you that you were gonna drink yourself to the bottom of the bottle one day and that would be it, I meant it and you needed to hear it. So I take back my bullshit apology I gave you in hopes we would lock lips just one more time. I take back every compliment, every glance, ever drink, ever smoke, every drug, every meaningless lay, every skanky outfit, every asshole I dated.
Sincerely,
Caitlin.
I remember the moment I met him but I don't remember like it was yesterday. It's more like remembering a scene from another life, or at least from an old John Hughes movie where I'm Molly Ringwald but the rest of the breakfast club has up and left me, and even by the end of the movie the guy of my dreams still won't like me, even though it's in the script. That's what the whole messy thing was like. A really classic, well-written script that the male ingénue decided not to follow.I was sixteen and blond and I wanted to be more famous than Britney Spears and Jesus combined. Which is why I was in Ms. Nielson's first period acting class. It was also why I was in desperate need of a CD player that would play the Broadway Musical Wicked soundtrack loud enough for me to hear, but just quiet enough so that the entire class would hear me belting along and be really really really impressed, and really really really jealous and so that maybe if by some chance a record producer just happened to be walking by the classroom he would instantly stop, turn, poke his head into the little theatre, see me singing and say "why, young lady that is the most incredible voice I have ever heard and you have the looks to match, I'm going to make you more famous than Britney Spears and Jesus combined!" Of course I imagined this sort of scenario playing out countless times in various locations (the mall, the book store, Borders, Fridays, a gas station, in the car while I was singing to music and some man in a fancy car next to me would roll down the window like in those Grey Poupon commercials, except instead of asking for mustard, he would ask me to sign with his record label). But, shocker: it never happened. I'm not sure I ever really thought it would, but hey, I was sixteen and bathing in naivety and my number one idol, Britney Spears, hadn't lost her damn mind yet. I had to keep hoping.So there I was in the little theatre, growing increasingly desperate seeing as how class was about to start and I had yet to wow my classmates with my unyielding bravado, when my friend Alisha, the fiery, rebellious girl with hair of fire and a mind to match, stood up on her chair and shouted "does anyone in this damn class know if there is a CD player in this room?!" The response was a chorus of confounded mumbles and head scratching, and finally Alisha rolled her eyes, fixed her green neon fishnets, and plopped back down in her seat. I heard her mutter something about "useless, fucking retards” and I laughed in response, as her dangerous hazel eyes narrowed and wandered to the left of me. She abruptly rose from her seat and made a move towards the heap of black fabric sitting at the desk next to mine. Up until this point I had been a little less than unaware of, and even a little disgusted by this presence. I didn't know who he was and I didn't care. I hadn't seen him there the last two quarters, but his black, over sized band sweatshirt, pulled up over his head, which was lying seemingly unconscious on his desk told me that this was not my new best friend anyway. The smell of cigarettes wafting from his direction and his dirty backpack, adorned with skulls, safety pins, and what I assumed to be some sort of devil music death metal band patches also gave me the hint that I wasn't missing much by not being acquainted with him. Nonetheless, Alisha continued on her path towards him. "Hey, Chris!" she yelled directly in his ear, which I hadn't noticed until then, were covered with headphones. In addition to making the devil child deaf in one ear, she proceed to hit his arm and shake him until a confused, angry, and (looking back on it), hung-over face emerged from the cotton tar pit. "What?" he responded, glaring at Alisha, wiping drool from his mouth. His tone said "I would kill you, but I'm too tired". He shifted his glassy gaze lazily around the theatre looking utterly nonplussed. His eyes said "I don't where the Hell I am, or how the Hell I got here, but I want some answers now...and maybe an Irish coffee" as they wandered around the room and came full circle back to Alisha."Can my friend Caitlin borrow your disk man for a sec?" she asked nodding towards me. He pulled himself a little further out of his hoodie, to expose a tired face that looked to worn for his age and a head full of gelled up greaser-type hair. I felt my eyes darting uncomfortably from the floor to Alisha to Chris several times as I felt his angry judging eyes sizing me up. Finally I let my eyes rest on Chris challengingly as if to say "I don't care how many bats’ heads you've bitten off, I want that CD player" He raised his gaze to mine and at the very instant of their connection I felt as if my world had just collapsed. The universe had folded and unfolded and divided into an even greater infinity. My brain said "look away, this boy is trouble" but I couldn't stop staring; a jet of electricity soared through my body from head to toe tickling every minuscule sensor from the hairs on my head to each tip of my innocent fingers. My brain screamed "stop staring, this is weird, I think he's trying to steal your soul!" But I couldn't stop. His eyes were like emeralds only greener. His eyes were like opals only more iridescent. His eyes were like an ocean at midnight, only more luminescent. His eyes were like lightening, only brighter, lovelier, and ten times as dangerous. At this point my brain was shrieking "FOR THE LOVE OF BRITNEY AND ALL THAT IS BROADWAY LOOK AWAY WOMAN, LOOK AWAY!!!"

It was only when Alisha leaned over and whispered "good god, that boy is wrecked" in my ear that my soul returned from outer space, the air made its journey back into my lungs, my brain ceased its withering and emerged shaking violently from a far corner of its encasement. And finally my eyes said their blue goodbyes and fell a million miles once more to the cold tiled floor of what I once knew to be just the little theatre. After I felt a sufficient amount of nano-seconds had passed since their departure, my eyes darted back to Chris, and then swiftly away again. I had broken our staring match, but apparently he had failed to deduce that it had come to an end. He sat there staring at me intensely. Even when I glanced back in his direction and glanced back down again to check that he really was still looking, his eyes did not disappoint me. His eyes never disappointed. They are the only thing about him to this day that don't; that won't.

But yes, he was still staring carefully finishing his inspection. After what seemed an eon, but what was, in reality, a minute or less, his gaze still set on me, he answered Alisha with a coy "yea, she can borrow my disk man". He removed his headphones from his ears, and the disk man from the pouch of his hoodie and handed them over with a slight, mischievous, James Dean sort of smile. It was the smile that shook me wide awake. In an instant, the life changing experience I had felt was completely obliterated; the creation of a whole new universe was eradicated with that one stupid smile. I know that smile. Guys begin to smile like that as soon as they learn how; just after their voices change and just a little before they start sneaking playboy into their Captain America comics.

I mustered as much of a smile back as I permanently broke the look that had lasted just a little too long between us. I put the headphones on and replaced his Social Distortion disk with the Wicked soundtrack and pushed play. Listening to this music was all that I could do to distract myself from my our uncomfortable encounter until class began. About 526 years later my Ms. Nielson strode into the theatre with perfection, as always, and the bell which marked the start of class sounded throughout the building. Salvation had come.

I don't know why I feel such a need to give every single detail about that moment. Perhaps because it was the mark of a turning point in my life. Up until I met Chris, everything around me I can only describe as pink and glittery. This doesn't mean that I lead a charmed life. My mother had just died three years prior, but even though that left me with enough emotional issues to fill up ten million of my therapist's journals, I still believed that life, and fate, and people, were mostly good. I tried my very best to get good grades, and, I will reluctantly admit, that I looked down upon those who did not. I liked pop music, I believed I would be a world famous entertainer, I loved wearing pink girly clothes and bopping along to the A*Teens as I perfected my look every morning. Basically every Disney movie ever created was my motivation and inspiration to find my own happily ever after. I was, at this time in my life convinced for the second time, that I was one step closer to having it. His name was Warren, and while I was a Junior in High School, just on the verge of being able to operate a vehicle with a licenced driver present in the passenger seat, he was a Freshman at Stony Brook University. His major? Physics. As much of a flake as I tried to be during my teenage years, I could never truly hide the fact that I was much more interested in brains than looks. Warren's intelligence and fierce scholastic aptitude drew me like a surfer to the sea. It also didn't hurt that despite his intelligence and lack of anything close to a fashion sense, Warren was a very attractive guy. He had naturally tan, soft, flawless skin, that I swear would glow every time my fingertips came in contact with it. His lips were full and pouty and gave him that Bob Dylan sort of brooding look, but when they parted into a smile, which was often, a friendly warmth emerged and saturated the world in complete comfort and sun. He didn't have a bad body either. Though he had terrible asthma, as, of course, only a stereotypical science could, the boy sure could run. But the thing I noticed first about him, and the thing that made me say "I love you" a mere nine days into our relationship, were his eyes. They were indescribable. They too, were green. But a richer, friendlier, handsomer green. They made me think of underwater everglades and the glow of a planetary nebula, out in the furthest imaginable corner of space. I got lost in them so easily, and never cared to find my way home. Warren was just wonderful. He was sensitive and sweet, dorky but cool, intelligent, but so relaxed. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard, so often with anyone else. I still look back on our relationship as one of my best, romantic, friendship, or otherwise, and to this day I am still painfully aware of the wonderful thing I gave up, when I gave him up. I'll never forget him ask so honestly, so calmly, "do you have a thing for Chris?" and my reply, a confused, guilty and reluctant "yea". He accepted it so well, and though that wasn't the end of our relationship, I'm sure Warren, the practical person he is, was making a mental preparation. The end of our love was the start of my descent; a rough but swift descent I decided to make when I decided to cut my warm, happy safety net with Warren, and take my chances with Chris. Among the many coincidences and ironies of this situation, was the fact that Warren and Chris lived right down the street from each other, but hadn't spoken in years until I bridged that gap. Until Warren sadly, but humbly passed the torch. Until Chris lazily, carelessly, and barely caught the torch, then dropped it in a muddy puddle along the path to his next and fleeting flame.

However, at this point in time, I knew nothing of what was to come, and life was still pink and peachy. As drama class ended, I gently replaced the Wicked soundtrack with the disk covered in dancing skeletons. With a raised eyebrow, and one more attempt at a smile, I muttered a "thanks" and avoided Chris's eyes, (though I could feel them burning into my head) and handed him the disk man. "Anytime" he cooed slyly, and sauntered towards the door. As I exited the room after him, I couldn't help but notice the eccentric fan club that had gathered by the door in anticipation for him. I heard shouts of joy as his friends, who apparently lived at Hot Topic, greeted him with many different forms of his first and last name such as "Mayer", "May May", "Chris Lightening" and many others. As random students passed in the hall, even the most normal, respectable, and well-to-do, they smiled and waved enthusiastically at "May May" and savoured his each and every slight response as if he was the new teen dream. Finally, as he and his posse gathered their assorted skull and punk rock paraphernalia, the last of his adoring fans bid him farewell. He removed his sweatshirt and threw it in his bag, and shortly thereafter unrolled his tight-fit black t-shirt to reveal a pack of cigarettes. He popped one in his mouth and rolled the rest of the Marlboro reds in his shirt sleeve and dove back into his sweatshirt. One last very normal looking girl ran over, gave him a hug and ran off to class. I watched, confused and disgusted as I watched the posse of misfits walk as warriors in the battle for rebellion outside to the courtyard to have a smoke. I stared, bewildered after him. How could it be that this miscreant had such an overwhelming rating of approval? But there it was; as I gazed after the rebel soldiers, I saw, just as I made to break eye contact with the backs of their heads, The Famous Chris Mayer, cigarette between his lips parted in a perfect scowl, turn his head towards me, remove a comb from his back pocket, slick back his hair, and give me a troublesome, haunting wink.
I was 16. I had never drank, never smoked, never had sex, and had never done any type of drug. But Hell, I was hooked on Christopher Mayer.

A Self-fulfilling Prophecy of Sorts

The life of an essentialist could be said to be a very secure and definitive one. An essentialist knows who he is, what he is here for, and what path he is destined to choose. He is certain of his place in the world. Throughout the Harry Potter books, however, Harry's life was filled with anything and everything but certainty. This was, in part, caused by the Sorting Hat itself, which may at first glance seem like the epitome of essentialism. However, look a little deeper, and one will find that the Sorting Hat is just the beginning of an existentialistic journey that will last a witch or wizard's lifetime.
When Harry Potter first arrives at Hogwarts, he knows next to nothing about the four houses or the Sorting Hat. All he knows is what people, such as Ron and Hagrid, have told him, which is primarily that he would not want to end up in Slytherin. "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one"(Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, 80). The Sorting process in relation to Slytherin has a lot to do with the illusion of the Sorting Hat being very essentialistic. When Hagrid says "there's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin" he did not say "there is not a single witch or wizard in Slytherin who didn't go bad". For the most part, Slytherins are percieved as dark and evil witches and wizards, but just because one becomes a Slytherin does not mean that is his fate. He may just simply be very ambitious, but would perhaps not go to the sinister lengths a Malfoy or Lord Voldemort would to get what he wants. When Harry is sorted, the Sorting Hat has a particularly difficult time deciding in which house he should be placed. The Sorting Hat finds that Harry is a combination of all the houses, stating that he has "plenty of courage...not a bad mind either...there's talent...and a nice thirst to prove yourself"(121). All these different qualities show that not everyone at Hogwarts has one specific place they are supposed to be, but they may have one or two characteristics that stand out more than others. The Sorting Hat then uses those qualities for simple tradition's sake and to help the new students form some sort of identity. When the Sorting Hat questioned where to put Harry all Harry can think in his head is "Not Slytherin, not Slytherin"(121), to which the Sorting Hat responds "Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that-no? Well, if you're sure-better be GRYFFINDOR!"(121). Harry is very relieved to hear that he has not been chosen to be in Slytherin, however, the point that Harry misses, which turns into a reoccurring theme throughout the novels, is that he was not "chosen" to be anything. In his own mind was the power to be and choose whatever he wanted. The Sorting Hat says it all itself; "it's all in your head". There was no predetermined house which he was destined to be in; every path in his life can only be paved by himself. The reason the Sorting Hat had such a trying time sorting Harry was the same reason it had such an easy time sorting Draco Malfoy. From the time of his birth, Draco Malfoy was probably bombarded with Slytherin culture and the pure-blood way of life. Draco knew not only that he wanted to become a Slytherin for reasons of his own, but that he was a Malfoy; he was expected to be nothing less than Slytherin. It is possible that Draco's experience with the Shorting Hat has much to do with a simple self-fulfilling prophecy. Draco chose his own path, the Sorting Hat merely read his mind and granted his wish, just as it did by not placing Harry in Slytherin. That is ultimately the purpose of the Sorting Hat; to tell a witch or wizard what she or he is best suited for based on his or her own mind. It may be a rough guide to help students become situated at Hogwarts, but it never actually assigns any witch or wizard with his or her disposition, destination, or station. Throughout the novels, Harry has many opportunites to become a dark, or at least a seriously selfish wizard. The fact that he ultimately does not give in, has nothing to do with destiny, and everything to do with Harry's free will.
In the second novel, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Harry finds himself alone in Dumbledore's office with the Sorting Hat. Curious as to whether or not it had made the correct choice by placing him in Gryffindor, he tries on the hat. Recalling that Harry had been difficult to sort, the Sorting Hat says "I stand by what I said before...you would have done well in Slytherin"(206). Harry tells the hat that it is wrong, but throughout the novel he discovers he can speak Parseltongue, the language of Salazar Slytherin himself, and is said to possibly be the heir of Slytherin, and continues to worry about whether or not his fate will be to end up similar to Voldemort.
However, when Harry faces the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, Fawkes the Phoenix, drops the Sorting Hat and it produces the sword of Godric Gryffindor for Harry's protection. This moment seems to symbolize Harry making the choice to be a Gryffindor, as opposed to a Slytherin, for, as Dumbledore later states, "Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the Hat, Harry"(334). Though Dumbledore does call him a "true Gryffindor", it is clear that this was Harry's decision, not the absolute decree of the Sorting Hat. Harry had made his place in the wizarding world what he wanted it to be, not followed a written out map for his life. Harry admits to Dumbledore that the Sorting Hat only put him in Gryffindor because he asked it not to put him in Slytherin, to which Dumbledore replies "Exactly...which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities"(333). As far the Sorting Hat was concerned, life was literally what Harry had made it.
An existentialists view is usually that nothing has meaning until one gives it meaning, there is no one road by which to travel. The Sorting Hat appears to be a false idol which grants young witches and wizards with a sense of security, identity, and destiny. It is only the wisest, or at least the most introspective students who will discover that the Sorting Hat is simply there to provoke their own thoughts, feelings, and choices which will shape the rest of their free, yet still uncertain, lives.