Like Water Through My Fingers

My skin was very light olive in color, though in the florescent lighting it looked yellowish. The tips of my fingers appeared purplish gray, and my veins, purple and green, stuck out. A silver band with an onyx stone encircled my left ring finger; my only consent to the societal demands of jewelry.

Twelve minutes.

I obeyed the clock, although I could not feel time’s passing.

My efforts to be fully “Secular” or “Sacred” had failed. I could not be held by the constraints of any style or category; my writing was a search for peace within myself, knowing it was like chasing the wind: a futile effort.

My hands and the way I wrote showed it: I was fast, but I did not type strictly in format. I looked only at the keys when at a loss for words.  

Eight minutes.

Time passed quickly for me; people would ask me when a class ended and I invariably replied, “When the bell rings.”

That was enough for me.

Six minutes.

I was never aware of time’s passing. Sometimes I would guess longer than it had. Sometimes my guess fell short.

Minutes could drag on like hours, seeming unending.

Or hours could fly by as swiftly as seconds, leaving me wondering “Where has my time gone?”

Four minutes.

Weeks seem to go by so quickly when I divide my time within class periods and hours of homework.

Two minutes.

For once, I did not have a headache.

One minute.

RING!

And I was free from school, but not from the words.

I can never be free from the words. They lurk inside me, dormant during school, and then, once my mind is free, they swirl around and pelt my mind with ideas.

I cannot be free from time, or from the words.