Tuesday, February 23, 2010



He brushes sleep from the eyes that refuse to open. Somewhere in the fogginess, he hears Fergie crying that she's already so 3008 and that he's so 2000 and late. A weary hand slides out from under the quilt covers, snaking its way through the jungle of stuff toys. The velvety covers give way to plastic, cold from the hours in the aircon. The fingers reach up, the open phone slides shut. Fergie stops. Good. It's too early to krump.

It's a Wednesday. His fingers pass over the blue t-shirt, coming to rest on the uniform.

It's maths again. What's the number of ways that he could pick thirty-two people from fifty-eight? He doesn't know, he doesn't really care. What's the probability that he's picked? His hand movements elude even his own consciousness as they bring the pencil across the paper. The vague outline of one over fifty-eight appears.

he looks down. he doesn't remember writing that.
he's not paying attention, a voice tells him.
he looks up. it's not the face he wants to see.
the pencil slides across the paper again. only numbers appear this time.

somewhere in england, the tempestuous pair rage for each other; rage at each other. people come, people die. hope eventually triumphs, evil succumbs to good. life has come full circle; what must start must end.

the lights shine on him. his hands are raised, not in surrender, but in victory. hopeful, victory. he tells the girl in front of him that her banana is blocking him. she gives him a funny look.

he wonders if she's a great friend.

he walks into the room. it's noisy. it's messy - bags and papers lie dead on the battle-table that his eyes fall open. there's a sudden clattering as plastic meets the tiles. fireworks of laughter explode; glittering elation seems to float in the air, ringing sweetly. a boy notices him, a smile opens on his face as he hollers hallo. the 'lo' sound spikes several semi-tones higher than the 'hel'.

he wonders if he smells like sulphur.

one sits quietly amongst the rest. mini-rockbands are plugged into his ears, his mane falling over the deep wells of his eyes. he doesn't look up as a shadow falls across him; a hand clasping his neck in brotherly embrace. a phrase that both asks for his departure and a female dog is heard.

he wonders if he's feeling better.

forty sit in front of him. their eyes glimmer with a hope not yet fatigued by work, illusions not yet extinguished by reality. he can see the dreams blaze so fiercely in their eyes. it hurts, almost.

he wonders if the fire will burn forever.
he wonders if they'll love each other like he loves his others.
he wonders if they'll have cam-whoring bbqs.
he wonders if they'll fight over stupid things and reconcile almost immediately.
he wonders if they'll cry, some nights, because they're scared of the journey's end.
he wonders if they'll be a real students' council.

...
and yes, he wonders why tears sometimes fall from the eyes of the happiest.