I went to the library today. The intention was to study. I felt good about my mission. I met with a friend there and hoped his studiousness and that of my surrounding public would rub off on me, somehow. And I would, vicariously, master the art of reading for class.
Cognitive science.
My first worry came when I realized I'd left both of my highlighters in my room. I spent my time reading and taking notes on 4x6 index cards. I felt like things could work. I soon realized I was stifling my breathing. I feared breathing too heavily in such a quiet room. My eyes glazed over the words with most honest intent. I took down notes, but I couldn't really remember them.
I wanted my friend to touch me again. He touched my elbow in a weird way when he greeted me. I enjoyed it.
I wanted to read so I could be the student in class my teacher appreciated and respected. I wanted to always have the answers. I thought about memorizing everything. I want to know. But I don't. Not until it's too late. Can't articulate. That's what ran through my mind as I read.
I was soon left alone at the table. He had to catch a bus home. Off campus living is hard, I guess. I tried reading more, but it became difficult. The sentences spun in circles. I kept saccading too far back. I didn't get it any more. My characters came back. They occluded my mind with an opening to their romance. A first kiss -- in a hot tub no less.
"Do you like me?" Of course. Otherwise, the story fails.
My mind was in conflict. My body responded accordingly. I was rubbed with sexual desire because of their musings. I was filled with frustration because I just couldn't focus on my reading. I wanted the story to end. I didn't care about it. But it pervaded. They kept musing. They insisted on telling the story.
I tried walking around. I tried distracting them with motion. It didn't help. They narrated the motion. They narrated my frustration .I became the story, just with a different name. I didn't have control, try as I might. I felt miserable, angry, and frustrated. A harrowing sense of failure. Failure. One of my greatest fears. Unable to read equals unable to retain and therefore unable to learn. Powerless. I didnt like this sense of loss.
I tried moving to a far away place. I curled up in my own thoughts, but I couldn't read. I could only finish their scene. I let them begin their romance. I played all of the parts, the motions. I almost felt the heat, and entirely felt the desire and the longing.
The chapter remained unread. My lesson untaught. But I guess I have another steamy moment for a story I will never write.
~Kat
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