Mondays. Everyone's either happy to be back at school, seeing all their friends, discussing the weekend assignments, or depressed, pissed off and far behind in their work. Mentally, I began to check boxes as I proceeded to my locker.
Happy to be back at school? No.
Seeing friends? Yeah, why not. Check.
Weekend assignments? Er, check. Of course check. Of course.
Depressed? Check.
Pissed off? Check.
Far behind in work? What rubbish, the checked box for weekend assignments is clearly not a lie.
I sighed. Convincing myself that I wasn't screwed in maths class for my half finished assignment didn't change the fact that Mr Lester would jam my eye out with a metal ruler. Swearing under my breath, I slammed my locker door shut.
Late for class? Check.
This week was getting better and better wasn't it?
As I walked to the classroom, I began praying that Mr Lester had broken an arm, leg, anything, over the weekend and wasn't here today. I peeked through the classroom door's window. Prayer sucked, there was Mr Lester, ready as always, writing notes on the board. My eyes roamed over the desks. Troy was at our regular spot, and seemed to be intensely focused on something in his lap. Everyone else was busy writing down the notes on the whiteboard.
Then I saw it. That head of flowing, golden-brown hair. Sitting next to the empty seat Troy had reserved for me. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. This sort of thing only happened in stories, not real life.
Oh, of course it did. Rubbing my eyes helped a lot. I was actually staring at the school hippie, with his also flowing, golden-brown hair. Lovely, I said quietly to myself, lovely. With that, I opened the door, quickly padded over to my chair and slid into the seat.
Need to get this girl out of my head? Check.
Studio B
- Mark
- When you need to wake up in the morning, and set the right mood for the day, when you need to escape from the overwhelming everything of life. What do you turn to? How do you describe your core without speaking aloud, without having to talk to someone about it? This is how. Music. Lyrics. Poetry. Do you feel it? Do you? It's here, it's everywhere, locked within you, within the most tone deaf of us. It's begging to be released, become unleashed in a tearing chord, a crying melody, soulful harmony, dying lyric. You feel it yet? It's concealed here, within every word that I write. This is my release. I want you to see it, to feel it with me. This pure expression of every tangible and imaginable emotion known and unknown to man. To me. Welcome to The Window.