A Unique and Torn Romance

All day, I don’t look up. The test is on my table, so there’s no need to look up. The rest of my classes go by slowly, but they go by. I don’t pay attention in any of them. A few of the teachers made me stay after class and ‘had a talk with me’, but even then I didn’t look up.
Somehow, I even manage to walk through the halls without ever looking up and without bumping into anyone.
I hear people whisper and snicker as I pass them. Each time I try hard to just think of it as normal chit-chat-snickering, but I just know it’s because of me.

At lunch, I sit in a classroom. Math with Mr. Whoever is always open. There’s nothing worth stealing in here and the teacher’s too lazy to carry around his keys. He even uses the students’ bathroom. Everyone knows not to enter any bathroom he’s come out of. Sometimes notes have even been hung on bathroom doors saying “Mr. Whoever’s bathroom for today”. Of course it wouldn’t say Mr. Whoever, but I never remember his name.
I don’t remember anybody’s name. Except for a few.

I eat and apple while I do my math homework for two weeks ahead. I have a lot of time on my hands lately. I woke up sometime in the evening yesterday and didn’t go to bed ‘til 4.30 am. I don’t think I fell asleep until sometime past 5.

Even though I’m ahead on my math, I still haven’t started my assignment in English. ‘Analyze a poem’. Urgh. I hate analyzing. You can go anywhere with it, and even if you have some incredible arguments as to why ‘I love you’ actually means ‘I hate you’ in some random poem, then the teacher will still shoot you down and give you a D because of your ‘misinterpretation’. How can you ever ‘misinterpret’ something? Isn’t an interpretation an individual evaluation of something?!

I hate English.

Maybe I should put it in my paper – how a poem can be interpreted in any way, and therefore can never be ‘missed’.
That actually sounds kinda good.

It can even be transferred into real life. Life is something that is always interpreted. Each day we give it our own individual evaluation and interpretation, and therefore it can never be ‘missed’.
Each interpretation of how life should be lived is just as good as any other. An interpretation of life could be a religious choice. It could be a moral choice. It could be a choice of sexuality – which, in reality, isn’t much of a choice, but still a choice.
Life isn’t a choice, but it is. You never chose to be given this life, but it is your own choice whether you wish to keep it or not – whether you wish to live or die.

I pull out my notebook and start scribbling everything down. My writing is jumbled and hard to read, but it all makes sense – every sentence, every word, every comma. I keep writing. Even when my hand starts aching, I keep writing.
The only thing that stops me is when I jot down a rhetorical question, which isn’t as rhetorical as I thought:
‘Have I ever made a choice, or has life done it for me?’