The edges of my brain are throbbing, hands trembling, and the vertebrae of my neck presses forward as if it’s being cradled by a neck pillow made of heavy metal. This feeling easily correlates with the music that would come out of my mouth in efforts to express the pain of right now, here. Although, all I’ve put into it is Spotify’s study playlists off browse and a friend’s recommended classical music, in hopes that I am capable of calmness and an ability to be focused all the while my exam is in approximately 3 hours, and I feel like crying as I look at the book in front of me.
The bench beneath me is evenly weighted among three of its four legs–my body criss-crossed on top of it, balancing. It’s a frigid morning on campus, pretty much matching the mood of any individual rushing by, pen and calculator in hand, lack of book bag and an abundance of dread discoloring their expressions. Faces are buried in textbooks on architecture, finance, biology, and a large sum of others that largely amount to jargin once I’ve sold or burnt that book.
8:59. I watch as Jason and the Asian guy strut past, exchanging nervous remarks about the money multiplier and inflation rates influencing investment and national saving.
Fuck me. Fuck me sideways.
I follow in.