I’m feeling rather good about myself at the moment. I was not rushing around trying to get everything done this morning, and I wrote a decent amount, so I’m pretty proud of myself, actually, since in the mornings, I’m generally not motivated to do anything. I also finished one essay in the weekend, so that might contribute to my confidence this morning, since I have almost three weeks to work on my other one.
I’m waiting for the university printer to work at the moment. It’s still early, so the room is relatively empty. There are still free computers. Later in the day, it will be very full. I have so many papers in my backpack that it is not funny. I’ll have to sort them out and file them tonight, or else I’ll lose track of everything and I’ll never be able to locate my notes. It takes so much energy to simply make myself do the work though. I’d much rather write about something, as long as it is prose and not something argumentative. Now, that takes far too much energy.
The concrete outside is dark with water. The branches of the trees are skeletal in the pale grey winter light; they are naked, save for a few brown withered leaves still clinging onto them. Very few people are out and about on this cold dreary mrning. I can see two people sitting on a bench, talking and smoking. Well, at least one of them is talking. The other just sits there, staring in front of her as if she is simply part of the landscape.
Waves of hot hair waft from the heater beside me. It gets a bit irritating, actually, but I chose the seat because it was close to the window and because the computer was already on, so I wouldn’t have to wait for it to start up. There is a text that I have to read for this afternoon’s tutorial, right after my class on Islamic history. I don’t feel like reading it, but I know I have to, or else I won’t be able to contribute. However, the remnants of the weekend still stain my mind. I want to make a video for YouTube, or just simply type and let the sound of my fingers tapping on the keyboard sooth me. It’s almost like meditating. Whenever I just let myself go and simply write or type, it’s like I’ve gone into a trance. Nothing really seems to matter except the sound of the keyboard and the words of the screen, or, if I’m writing with pen and paper, the scratch of the pen, the scribbles, and the texture of the paper.
My eyelids feel heavy, as if I am about to fall asleep again. It must be the warmth of the room, and my relaxed state, because if it was a bit colder, I would be wide awake. Temperature is so important to levels of concentration. I like it a little bit cooler, but everyone else seems to be fine in the warmth. Perhaps I’m used to a colder temperature indoors, since at my place, we hardly ever use heaters, prefering to wear coats indoors.
Perhaps I should stop typing now. My fingers on the keyboard feel good, but the sound and the rhythm are making me sleepy.
