The room is quiet. Filled with busy bodies, typing, reading, stretching, sipping out of steaming mugs. The only noise is the faint new age beat coming through the speakers and an occasional cell phone ring. We are all in this thing together, trying to pass tomorrow's exam so that we can move past it and on to our future dreams. One step at a time, they say. Part of me is attentive to the task at hand, working with every fiber inside to make the best grade possible. The other half of me is silently screaming, "GET ME OUTTA HERE!" There are so many places to see, people to meet, things to get done. So, why am I still sitting at this little square table trying my best to focus and study? (My parents would interject here and remind me: "Because that's how you get to see those places and meet those people and do those things.")
They're right. Patience is still the name of the game for me. It always has been and still is. I get antsy so easily. My mind is an explosion of ideas, a geyser ready to blow like the volcanic eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in Pompeii. My hands shake from wanting to do something; they are constantly drawing and writing, because that is the next best thing. A multitude of loose papers float around my room, crowd my drawers, and hide in the crevices of my car, all with ideas and brainstorms of new possibilities. It is always a rush when one of those papers reaches the "done it file." It brings a sense of fulfillment and readiness to check something else off my extensive list.
The guy next to me has hair prettier than mine. It's long and wavy and thick and the color of milk chocolate. I'm willing to bet that he never brushes it and probably never showers. He has on a pinstriped vintage jacket and shiny black shoes. Maybe he just came from church or maybe from an art exhibit. Who knows. Strange pieces of art hang on the panels of plastered walls. They are really strange...Like scenes from A Wrinkle in Time. I didn't understand that book when I read it in the fourth grade, but I have always had distinct pictures in my mind that I self-illustrated while reading the story. Maybe the guy next to me in the pinstripe vintage jacket and shiny black shoes painted them. The weather is nice today- A little breezy, but no rain so far.
I catch myself staring out the window watching the passersby (Anything to get me away from reading another chapter.)
In walk a handful of people, the noise level increases by a couple of notches and the new age beat has been exchanged for some sort of electric guitar and the sound of a mini broom sweeping across a symbol. The artsy guy has left and in his place sits a pink sweatered girl who resembles a secretary, as her glasses sit perched on the bridge of her petite nose. She is lost in her IPOD and chews on the end of a purple pin. Unlike the one who preceded her, she must shower daily and she definitely brushes her hair. I can't help but notice the sign hanging on the window. It reads, "Be happy, drink frappy." Who comes up with these things? Over and out....