Spills
There's a stain on the table. It's raised, so perhaps a stain is not the best word.
There's a spill on the table. Of something red. Maybe tea? Maybe hibiscus?
It's gathered dust.
Is this a table? Is it too long? Does it matter that the chairs are attached? Does it matter that it is in a classroom? Does that make it a desk?
There's a spill on the desk.
I worry that my coffee will be blamed, and myself by extension- but the spill is no where near the color of coffee. It's pinkish. And a little orange. Maybe a juice? Flecks of dirt are caught in whatever this used to be. It's probably still slightly sticky. There is no obvious way to clean it and it occurs to me that the classrooms, for all I am being charged for them, are not cleaned. Trash is removed, perhaps. But I already knew most of my tuition was likely going to some football coach. To build new buildings. To subsidizing people like myself, the working poor, which I don't mind.
I paid 700 dollars out of pocket last semester, so I have actually invested in this myself. I will eventually pay thousands more in loan repayments, but for now the 700 will have to stand as my showing.
I've spent a third of the semester in bed. A third.
I've spent a third of the semester in bed because of a lack of will, reduced medications and a monster. I didn't know people could be monsters on such a small scale. But monsters trap you in bed, because your feet cannot touch the ground, so I have been haunted by a monster. This is just a fact. I suppose the depression is a monster of it's own, but that one I have come to expect. That one I have learned to adjust to and deal with for the most part.
It's the people I have never gotten a hang of.
People slowly file in. The door opens with a click and closes with a thunk. Click. Thunk. Silence. Steps. Click. Thunk. A click and then a thunk. There is so much I don't understand, I realize. I don't know what the parts in the doorknob are called. What is the part that is making the click? It's a latch bolt.
I don't know if I will remember that later.
I am in class.
I don't know if I will remember any of this later.
That's the trouble with depression. The trouble with monsters.
There's a spill on the table. Of something red. Maybe tea? Maybe hibiscus?
It's gathered dust.
Is this a table? Is it too long? Does it matter that the chairs are attached? Does it matter that it is in a classroom? Does that make it a desk?
There's a spill on the desk.
I worry that my coffee will be blamed, and myself by extension- but the spill is no where near the color of coffee. It's pinkish. And a little orange. Maybe a juice? Flecks of dirt are caught in whatever this used to be. It's probably still slightly sticky. There is no obvious way to clean it and it occurs to me that the classrooms, for all I am being charged for them, are not cleaned. Trash is removed, perhaps. But I already knew most of my tuition was likely going to some football coach. To build new buildings. To subsidizing people like myself, the working poor, which I don't mind.
I paid 700 dollars out of pocket last semester, so I have actually invested in this myself. I will eventually pay thousands more in loan repayments, but for now the 700 will have to stand as my showing.
I've spent a third of the semester in bed. A third.
I've spent a third of the semester in bed because of a lack of will, reduced medications and a monster. I didn't know people could be monsters on such a small scale. But monsters trap you in bed, because your feet cannot touch the ground, so I have been haunted by a monster. This is just a fact. I suppose the depression is a monster of it's own, but that one I have come to expect. That one I have learned to adjust to and deal with for the most part.
It's the people I have never gotten a hang of.
People slowly file in. The door opens with a click and closes with a thunk. Click. Thunk. Silence. Steps. Click. Thunk. A click and then a thunk. There is so much I don't understand, I realize. I don't know what the parts in the doorknob are called. What is the part that is making the click? It's a latch bolt.
I don't know if I will remember that later.
I am in class.
I don't know if I will remember any of this later.
That's the trouble with depression. The trouble with monsters.
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