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And there you are, sitting in class waiting with your large blank spread of note paper in your sights. The quiet still of the room’s silence broken only by the infectuous white-noise sound of a thousand pencils composing mesmerizing passages.
The girl you love sits up and to the right of you.
She looks beautiful today; short hair done up in a kerchief pinned with some clips, no makeup except some light eyeliner, spaghetti strap tank. Look at those shoulder freckles, you think to yourself before thinking that you’re going to pass out. tiny hoops in her ears, and shiny bangles on her wrists.
She has a blue gas jacket on which sags and hangs at her elbows, a black pleated skirt which sits at the cliffs of her knees and shroud her long beautiful beautiful legs. Simple ankle socks and some mary janes.
These are the things that make people crazy; looking that good without trying at all.
And she sits there working on her creative writing, probably coming up with some of the most revelatory, complex, and altogether consuming passages, while you sit with your blank piece of nothing, inventing nothing but ghostly bits of spurious, fictionless poison.
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