Hate Lines of BOREDOM

The classes that are strictly taking notes from a teacher talking in circles while those people called your pupils poke fun at the inconsistency of the class are the WORST. The teacher giving a break is an unheard of thought traveling through listless minds forced to absorb information. Desperate attempts to make our blood circulate again are sought after. One such attempt is a simple task in disguise: blowing the nose on your face. Feels like floating, as air reaches the underneath of our skirts. The Relief is wonderful.

The teacher takes discipline never. It is the quiet ones who suffer the droning voices of the outspoken fools. Once every thirteen classes we may possibly receive the inconceivable break from the monotony. We become animals and do not know what to do with ourselves as the change to breathe air again is so nonchalantly handed to us. Our bodies are entangled in our limbs as we rush to reach the door. “Few at a time,” mumbles the voice that causes such chaos. The unlucky ones must return to their pieces of metal and plastic fashioned as a “desk,” as the fortunate smirk.

The clock on the wall is a common rendezvous of the eyes. We have better places to be and better things to do with the time we call our life. At each glance, the miniscule second hand moves its slowest. Looking anywhere but the main focus of the room, otherwise known as a slate of board nailed to the wall, causes one to notice things. Those cracks are uneven. The colours are awful.

Our attention is called to scribble down the homework we will never even look at, let alone think about. These classes are even more torturing when they occur as the end of seven hours called a school day. They last forever, with no hope of rescue or escape in sight. We are stranded in a world of unknown meaning.

this was written in geometry class while i was persistently not doing my geometry homework.