Deconstruction

The evening wears on, is still young at midnight; gets old around five.  Reality progresses to the point where it hits her: there is no way she's going to have the book read by eight.  She gives in with a sigh.  At some point during the course of the night, she has decided to drop the course, anyway, and thus, she escapes the reality of failure.  Hmm. . .  That sounds too much like something out of the book she just stopped reading.  But it's the truth.

She's got homework on top of the book, but she's given in to her creative energies.  The caffeine has made her queesy, and to write a report on top of that would make her downright sick.  She would like to avoid throwing up what little she has left in her stomach, right now.  Hence, she contemplates her wardrobe, when to see the movies she's been wanting to see, and what to do with the money she just got from her dad.  It won't go far, she knows.

Delirium increases.  She listens to baroque music and stares at a picture of Carl Sagan.  She nearly screams as she looks out the window.  The sky is getting lighter.

Staring carelessly towards an object on the floor, the young Bohemian contemplates many early-morning aspects of life:  Will she ever get the guy she wants?  and which one does she want?  If she doesn't get him, whose fault will it be?  If she does get him, how long will it last?  and will she cry in the end?  Should she turn off her lights now, or would that make too much noise?  How much work will she get done today, or will she sleep in every class?  How long can the nausea last, and is this what morning sickness feels like?  Questions, questions. . .

Obsessed, now, with looking out the window, she questions her very existence.  This is not a simple task.  That music is so very faint. . .  Is there dust on that poster, or is she just seeing things?  Who invented liquid soap, and why?  How do they get the coating on candy to be so even?  What do her dreams represent?  She has exactly one hour and five minutes left.  The tape rolls to a noisy end, and she is left with herself and the sound of an amazingly large amount of traffic outside.  Somewhere out there is a bird, sounding rather melancholy at this time of day.  She can't help but wonder. . . 

- March 18, 1985, A.D.