I haven't seen 4pm in a week. I traded it for 4am. I stay awake, usually until 7 or 8 before catching an hour or two of sleep, then off to class. Or most days, not off to class. It's a win-lose thing. And I know it's terrible, I know I'm paying money to be here, to go to class. But that doesn't stop me, or worry me. It should.
I have a mid term on tuesday for a class I've never sat through in it's entirety. I have no notes, not even the course textware. I'm officially fucked, or well maybe partially. I have a knack for pulling this kind of stuff off, I think that's what makes me keep doing it.
I originally came here to write in hopes it would put me to bed, only to find myself playing a video game and not studying. I should turn this not sleeping thing into something productive.
So I hit the save from draft and that's what I got.
It's almost a year now, and I've gotten to the point where all I can repeat is "write when you're drunk, edit when you're sober"
She walked sullenly through the stacks of books. Every single one holding new promise and devotion, an idea that would be implanted into one's brain and firmly held in place until the reading was through. Not going in any direction in particular but following the old haunts of new age religion and fiction she glided to the end of the historical biographies and noted a man sitting in the corner, a copy of Hitler's "Mein Kampf" placed intuitively on his lap so as to draw attention but also repel the notion of asking him why on Earth he would have such literature before him. An idea sticking in her brain she moved forward, approached the man and simply said "Page 145, paragraph 3 I think is my favorite"
He glanced up, bewliderment flashing in his eyes. The type of beweldermint seen in public places when people are attempting to understand whether or not they're being addressed. As soon as the understanding that this person was, indeed, speaking to him was computed he managed to breathe out "I haven't gotten that far yet."
Unobtrusively she smiled, and asked whether or not he would mind turning to that very page and paragraph in order to refresh her memory. He complied and quickly flipped his way to page 145, paragraph 3 and began to read aloud.
"That's enough" she told him after a paragraph or two onwards. Once again, that smile crept across her face and she thanked him for reminding her of the words written between the pages. "The words say so much more then any one person could convey in hours of conversation" she explained. As she turned to leave the young man looked up, "but why these words? If you don't mind my asking, of course."
In just a moment she had paused to turn around and say, "Nothing, I just wanted to hear you read for me, as I've said the words say so much more, I simply wanted to understand if you believe the ideals presented on the page or if they could be interpreted in another form."