Studying isn’t a forte of mine. So I write melodramatic posts about it instead.
I’d sacked off the place I was supposed to be, choosing excuses and time instead, facetiously to work, but really to stare at a screen and daydream. I pushed words out laboriously through my fingers, gazed at long, empty words of studies, highlighted pink to make me feel as if I understood. That throb of things to be done had set up days ago deep behind my eyeballs.
The thump of a drum echoed through speakers, melodies of autumn, that sort of blanket that stretched tantalisingly around. I shook my head, shuffled papers, turned a page without seeing anything.
A holly tree shone red and green outside the window. A leaf fell slowly to the ground. A second took an eternity to tick on.
I drafted a resignation to work, devoid of explanation, crammed with platitudes. I wrote and deleted another line of essay. A door bangs. A breath sighs. We were all waiting.
I ate biscuits for lunch with the same longanimity that pervaded the day. Grey clouds lolloped in over far, dying fields and covered the sky with monotony. Another line dressed in neon pink. Another page turned. Another vacant stare at graphs. At tables. At references of people infinitely more productive than I.
And hours I sat, as the beats fell around my deaf ears and words ran to rivulets in my eyes.