Spamming and Examming

I have reached the final cone of the egg timer.

My fingertips are trembling with pent-up pressure.

When I stop typing I can physically feel the time being wasted, even as I contemplate its passing. I procrastinate by letting thoughts about the nature of time take over.

For the Hopi Indians of Native America, present moments are also the dreams of the future and the efforts of our past. Time's a process of accumulation, of built-up hopes and best-laid plans.

My body's jittering away the remaining moments of my life.

I'm spending long minutes studying the expressions on far-off faces as they stare at space, chat trivially, be as unproductive as I'm being. I want to know what they're thinking. Are they faced with facts anywhere near as boring, as complicatedly mundane, as those I'm being forced to learn?

Did I pick the wrong degree?

I like to watch until their sixth sense twitches and they glance back. You can watch some people for a very long time without them noticing. Some seem to be missing peripheral vision; others preen out of the secret knowledge that I'm watching. Boring, ordinary exhibitionists.

I keep finding myself drifting into gloriously gory fantasies involving the fuckwits in my immediate vicinity. They're only whispering at each other, but it's as loud as thunder, lost at sea. I get up and go to the loo. Not because I really need to. Just so it's one of those things that happens - taking up precious time by acting human. When I return, these tedious cretins behind me continue to whisper and titter; about what, I can't make out. This slight annoyance sparks a forest-fire of misdirected rage. It's not their fault, I have to forcibly remind myself.

A quote floats over. 'It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen...' If only I could pen something that profound, I think wistfully, after staring at a blank screen long enough to conjure dark dots.

Outside the big windows the sun beckons and I can see nature in all its splendour, obnoxiously more beautiful because I can't enjoy it. Forbidden fruit glistening; emerald grass winking. Aches and sharp pains from years of shoddy posture beckon me back. My neck didn't click this badly yesterday.

Am I damaged now? Is this me?

Perhaps I should wait until the sand lies still, until I've been told to regurgitate information not yet gorged on, before deciding if I'm fully done for. I could even try swallowing some of their bullshit in the meantime. It was worth a cursory thought, but nah, I'm already done for. My sixth sense is tingling: I've been watching myself all semester, failing to study day after day, and I can feel my comeuppance calling.

They were right. Time's a process and tomorrow reflects on the actions of yesterday. It's too late.

On the other hand, fuck it. Time is nothing and I'm too spaced out to care.