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Time somehow stopped during winter vacation--time, and all of the little irritants it brought. Like wind blowing sand in one’s face time can’t be felt, but the obligations and plans and encounters that rush past can. The hiatus in the school year was a hiatus in my life.
The time that past during vacation--or non-time, as it should be more accurately named--was layered with a heavy, stagnant dust of guilt and sluggishness. Even the rain, as it fell greyly outside my bedroom window, couldn’t wash my mood clean. My bedspread--a victim of carelessness--was rumpled underneath me as I watched the reflection of the rain in my bedroom mirror. I had a million things that needed to be done: homework, housework, and more homework, but none of them needed to be done just then. Only "just then" wasn’t behaving as it would normally; it was stretched across two weeks and moored to the last day--the whiplash day, when all of the procrastination would snap upwards in a flinging panic-moment. As I sat on the bed, I knew this, but it did not instill in me any wish to move. There were a million things to be put off until tomorrow.
A brush sat beside me on the bed. I picked it up, and ran it through hair that had been rinsed too often in showers that were taken to pass the time. Showers couldn’t wash my mood clean, either. The taste of Christmas chocolate had soured my mouth, and the sourness spread from my tongue to my thoughts. I sat on the bed, brushing my too-rinsed hair, watching the too-gray rain, and permitting my mind to list how I had been wronged by life. No one loved me; I had no friends. I had homework to do, books to read, but I would rather read that silly fantasy novel again. But not just then. No, I would rather push my will against the weight of my plans, unmoving without the passage of time, but there nonetheless. Scholarships, fundraisers, schedules that needed changing--but I couldn’t go to the school office to change that until time started again--mustn’t forget, keep it in mind. Homework, housework, homework--Grapes of Wrath, which I liked but didn’t care about; it pushed on my head with all the mass of a hardcover book. It lay on my bookshelf, on top of an equally neglected history book, brown title proclaiming, "American Pageant," a college textbook, which lent me satisfaction. The next instant the fleeting pride was gone, gone because I didn’t deserve it.
I stood, momentarily desperate to do something--anything, anything that might banish that feeling of self-disgust. Feeling it wouldn’t help, telling myself it wasn’t helping wouldn’t help, and standing wouldn’t help either, because as soon as I was ready to do something, there was nothing to do. I sat again. Time had gelled around me, and I was trapped by its lack of movement. A vehicle can’t be steered without the engine to propel it; a sailor’s navigation won’t affect a doldrum-ed ship. The gray rain fell outside, and color left my thoughts. I wouldn’t ever do it--not write a book, not go to a prestigious university, not find my way to save the world. Despair was a bleak certainty, and one that I didn’t deserve. I had a good life and a sharp mind, parents that loved me and opportunities to pursue. I could rise to the top easily if I tried; people less fortunate than I had gone so much further. My stomach was heavy in me, heavy in a body that needed to be exercised, disciplined. Leaden arms and legs wouldn’t move, not just now. Lead is gray, like the rain falling from an overcast sky. Like my thoughts, my feelings. I didn’t care. I didn’t need to care. I would coast through life without trying, using skills I was given to avoid working harder, not exercising because I was naturally a little slimmer, letting others take the burden that I could shoulder if I cared to do so. We were all going to die anyway.
I hated myself.
Time is a funny thing. When no one is paying attention, it moves however it wishes. Time flies when you are having fun, it drags by during the second half of sixth period Calculus, and occasionally it stops completely. Perhaps it does this for humans, for the people of the sentient mind, dancing in front of them and around them, intending to be charming. What a shock for Time when humans whirl about and trap it. Clocks, watches, schedules, timetables, Daylight Savings and various devices take time--the twisting, bouncing time--and straighten it out, break it into manageable segments, measure it, and spend it. It becomes usable, forced into channels dug unswervingly by human persistence.
I looked at my calendar, and broke the crystallized time.
The rain was still falling; the sky was still gray. My brush was put away where it should be, and the indolent taste of candy was washed from my teeth. I stretched, standing, and picked up my history book. Four days were left until school, 109 hours, 6,624 minutes, or 396,037 seconds. I would have time to laze around after I finished my homework, cleaned the kitchen, filled out the job applications, and looked for scholarships.
But not just then.
The time that past during vacation--or non-time, as it should be more accurately named--was layered with a heavy, stagnant dust of guilt and sluggishness. Even the rain, as it fell greyly outside my bedroom window, couldn’t wash my mood clean. My bedspread--a victim of carelessness--was rumpled underneath me as I watched the reflection of the rain in my bedroom mirror. I had a million things that needed to be done: homework, housework, and more homework, but none of them needed to be done just then. Only "just then" wasn’t behaving as it would normally; it was stretched across two weeks and moored to the last day--the whiplash day, when all of the procrastination would snap upwards in a flinging panic-moment. As I sat on the bed, I knew this, but it did not instill in me any wish to move. There were a million things to be put off until tomorrow.
A brush sat beside me on the bed. I picked it up, and ran it through hair that had been rinsed too often in showers that were taken to pass the time. Showers couldn’t wash my mood clean, either. The taste of Christmas chocolate had soured my mouth, and the sourness spread from my tongue to my thoughts. I sat on the bed, brushing my too-rinsed hair, watching the too-gray rain, and permitting my mind to list how I had been wronged by life. No one loved me; I had no friends. I had homework to do, books to read, but I would rather read that silly fantasy novel again. But not just then. No, I would rather push my will against the weight of my plans, unmoving without the passage of time, but there nonetheless. Scholarships, fundraisers, schedules that needed changing--but I couldn’t go to the school office to change that until time started again--mustn’t forget, keep it in mind. Homework, housework, homework--Grapes of Wrath, which I liked but didn’t care about; it pushed on my head with all the mass of a hardcover book. It lay on my bookshelf, on top of an equally neglected history book, brown title proclaiming, "American Pageant," a college textbook, which lent me satisfaction. The next instant the fleeting pride was gone, gone because I didn’t deserve it.
I stood, momentarily desperate to do something--anything, anything that might banish that feeling of self-disgust. Feeling it wouldn’t help, telling myself it wasn’t helping wouldn’t help, and standing wouldn’t help either, because as soon as I was ready to do something, there was nothing to do. I sat again. Time had gelled around me, and I was trapped by its lack of movement. A vehicle can’t be steered without the engine to propel it; a sailor’s navigation won’t affect a doldrum-ed ship. The gray rain fell outside, and color left my thoughts. I wouldn’t ever do it--not write a book, not go to a prestigious university, not find my way to save the world. Despair was a bleak certainty, and one that I didn’t deserve. I had a good life and a sharp mind, parents that loved me and opportunities to pursue. I could rise to the top easily if I tried; people less fortunate than I had gone so much further. My stomach was heavy in me, heavy in a body that needed to be exercised, disciplined. Leaden arms and legs wouldn’t move, not just now. Lead is gray, like the rain falling from an overcast sky. Like my thoughts, my feelings. I didn’t care. I didn’t need to care. I would coast through life without trying, using skills I was given to avoid working harder, not exercising because I was naturally a little slimmer, letting others take the burden that I could shoulder if I cared to do so. We were all going to die anyway.
I hated myself.
Time is a funny thing. When no one is paying attention, it moves however it wishes. Time flies when you are having fun, it drags by during the second half of sixth period Calculus, and occasionally it stops completely. Perhaps it does this for humans, for the people of the sentient mind, dancing in front of them and around them, intending to be charming. What a shock for Time when humans whirl about and trap it. Clocks, watches, schedules, timetables, Daylight Savings and various devices take time--the twisting, bouncing time--and straighten it out, break it into manageable segments, measure it, and spend it. It becomes usable, forced into channels dug unswervingly by human persistence.
I looked at my calendar, and broke the crystallized time.
The rain was still falling; the sky was still gray. My brush was put away where it should be, and the indolent taste of candy was washed from my teeth. I stretched, standing, and picked up my history book. Four days were left until school, 109 hours, 6,624 minutes, or 396,037 seconds. I would have time to laze around after I finished my homework, cleaned the kitchen, filled out the job applications, and looked for scholarships.
But not just then.