math is weird. i’m not referring to math classes because those are just somniferous. somniferous lunches followed by somniferous math classes. but the matter of math itself is weird. the graph in my calculator deceives me, insanely zoomed in blue lines or barely intersecting blue and red lines - make up your mind! numbers imprisoned among grids, lines limited by arrows, and slow trickling of parabolas and asymptotes - i don’t know what math is about.
history is tragic. i feel history in my bones and i see history, not just in my textbook but outside of it, in the digital pdf- in the recurring arm sitting underneath the book; a librarian in a crisp checked shirt scanning each page meticulously, their morning spent glancing at monotonous stories of warriors and pictures of movements that shaped the world. they don’t know the power they hold. trust and betrayal, history is drama, petty colonisers and bold under-appreciated women. they are human. movies about history are long and dark and realistic and overwhelming and they make you wanna let the girl sleeping on your lap sleep a little longer even thought you can’t feel your leg anymore and it’s numb but war distracts you.
physics is painful. talking about physics is more painful. it’s eccentric and unique but i’m just so much space and i can only absorb so much light - i had to let it slip away, these delicate orange flowers tucked behind black masks and patches of galaxy projected against the window. collisions and slopes and pulleys all weighing you against the world - all gone, tucked in the back where i’m too scared to look again, cowardice lurks, hatred, regret, confusion. paper falls away too fast.
ah, literature. so different each day. astonishing and superior. cheap coffins lazing around in the sun, witnessing our ephemeral escapades as greek heroes, white doves, nieces, and curses, and the moon so high up in the sky, round enough that you want to eat it. the sky, the sky. so much to say about the sky. blue skies are always better than grey skies, the early blue of the morning paint solidifying gradually through the day. she drinks water from teacups - is she a purple potato yet? the irony of every day, wearing my it was a great day shirt every time i cry - the joy and lack thereof. many things in life are overrated. like friendships and good advisors. like breakfast. every night i put my head down on my pillow to be surrounded by a cloud of mosquitoes, buzzes menacing. the too-fast creaky fan by my bed’s head is of little help. i am a murderer of autumnal crunchy leaves, they are meant to be under the soles of my faded slippers that are never cohesive with the spectrum of my outfits.
philosophy is rain. disorienting, finds you unprepared, and essentially, prevents you from doing laundry. you can’t punch the raindrops but they can assault your warm skin with their brutal lack of warmth. require a lot of locking up in rooms, fires, and imitations of other faraway lands. other people are blurred combined with the suffocating embrace of one’s own company, solitude threatening to become loneliness. confusion, questions, teachers who are too understanding and advocates of tough love. unfinished essays and spending valentine’s day with the much despicable substance dualism. i’m bitter. philosophy is bitter.
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