Wednesday, February 23, 2005

... jusqu'a lundi prochain? Peut-etre.

I don't know whether anything is worth writing about until school starts next week. I mean, what is there to say? That I'm stealing Internet access as Sade croons from headphones I borrowed from a student sitting across from me, seemingly doing real work with papers piled high beside him?

The library is a strange grotto; its silence, maliciously intimidating.

I don't know the procedures of looking normal in such a place. What is proper? What isn't? I can barely make out an escape route as I sit here underneath the fluorescent lights - the obviousness of the path obscured by book-lined shelves, uniform but wrong like something out of an Escher. Sean Lennon's nasally tenor ushers in an uptempo, shimmering melody by Travis describing a plan to buy a gun. So I tap my foot (not too loud now) and stare at my computer screen, poker-faced and solemn, breathing in the notes. I cannot show outright signs of idleness even as boredom gnaws at my gut, persuading me to leave. But I refuse to go because I am not weak. I don't need to be entertained to feel. To feel what exactly? Like I am not a product of social interventions but a reflection of it, capable of holding my own. Because I am a solid mass, impenetrable and real and undetered by inaction.

And also craving for a coke. I haven't drank that shit in ages.

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