Sequel: One-Hundred Days ›
In the Month of May
Day Ten: Distraction
I tap my fingers along the desk, along my thigh, along the sleeves of my jacket. I drum them along, searching for different sounds, different ways to hear them. People turn back at me every few second, with confused and annoyed looks, but I don't care, I need a distraction, and this is all I have.
I drum out spastic rhythms, waiting to see which one keeps itself up for more than a few seconds. I keep myself busy, waiting for those second and minute hands on the clock across from me to reach the point they need to be.
People glare at me, but I pay no mind, as they are not nearly as worthy a distraction than my hyperactive fingers. I play out the songs in my mind, circling around each other, tunes mixing into melodies and harmonies that have never met the likes of each other. Choruses collide with bridges and verses, clashing and fighting for the loudest play inside my mind. I sit and move my fingers across any surface in front of me, the only distraction worthy of my too plenty time.
The eyes stay longer on my form, harsher, more annoyed these times. They stare and I ignore them, keeping up my fingers' nuerotic beat against the surface of the desk in front of me. The tips of my fingers become numb, I can no longer feel them tap out their beat, only hear their product. I sit and stare at my fingers, moving and dancing across each surface, and I remember their movements, storing them away for when I am able to leave this room of judging peers.
I keep up my distraction, and the glares subside, giving up in their attempts to quiet my fingers. I sit still and stare, waiting, keeping my thoughts on the movements of my fingers and the songs formulating inside my spinning mind. I keep them on everything but the thoughts of you pressing against the inner reaches of my skull, desperately forcing themselves to the front of my mind.
The hands reach their point, and the distraction is ended, as the thoughts vanish and evaporate into the flesh of my skull, waiting for my mind to call them up again when the time is right.
I leave, and I go to my safe place, through the crowded halls and blocked stairwells. I walk
and twist and turn, thinking about the distractions of my dancing fingers beforehand.
I sit in front of the dusty keys of the forgotten piano and place my still fingers on them, close my eyes, take a breath, and let the distraction make the invisible soundless tunes inside my mind come to life and breathe through the still air of the empty theatre.
I drum out spastic rhythms, waiting to see which one keeps itself up for more than a few seconds. I keep myself busy, waiting for those second and minute hands on the clock across from me to reach the point they need to be.
People glare at me, but I pay no mind, as they are not nearly as worthy a distraction than my hyperactive fingers. I play out the songs in my mind, circling around each other, tunes mixing into melodies and harmonies that have never met the likes of each other. Choruses collide with bridges and verses, clashing and fighting for the loudest play inside my mind. I sit and move my fingers across any surface in front of me, the only distraction worthy of my too plenty time.
The eyes stay longer on my form, harsher, more annoyed these times. They stare and I ignore them, keeping up my fingers' nuerotic beat against the surface of the desk in front of me. The tips of my fingers become numb, I can no longer feel them tap out their beat, only hear their product. I sit and stare at my fingers, moving and dancing across each surface, and I remember their movements, storing them away for when I am able to leave this room of judging peers.
I keep up my distraction, and the glares subside, giving up in their attempts to quiet my fingers. I sit still and stare, waiting, keeping my thoughts on the movements of my fingers and the songs formulating inside my spinning mind. I keep them on everything but the thoughts of you pressing against the inner reaches of my skull, desperately forcing themselves to the front of my mind.
The hands reach their point, and the distraction is ended, as the thoughts vanish and evaporate into the flesh of my skull, waiting for my mind to call them up again when the time is right.
I leave, and I go to my safe place, through the crowded halls and blocked stairwells. I walk
and twist and turn, thinking about the distractions of my dancing fingers beforehand.
I sit in front of the dusty keys of the forgotten piano and place my still fingers on them, close my eyes, take a breath, and let the distraction make the invisible soundless tunes inside my mind come to life and breathe through the still air of the empty theatre.