The Leaden-Eyed
Let not young souls be smothered out before
They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,
Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve; but starve so dreamlessly,
Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap,
Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve,
Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.
Vachel Lindsay
It's that time of year again. Jeans and boots are swiftly dropped in favour of pyjama bottoms and hole-infested ski socks. Lunch becomes a daily pilgrimage of duty and desperation; a half-hour laspe in the dreaded time/work continuum. The library becomes a blizzard of strewn pages and open textbooks, a hive of anxious, paranoid, caffiene-addled worker bees who know no difference between day and night. Witty conversation is condensed with lighting speed to worry, self-deprication and hollow retorts of half-hearted moral support from friends who are themselves too far drowned to throw a life ring.
And those faces. Those eyes; straining to focus through days of missed sleep, to see through the barrage of words and sums and diagrams. Like some grotesque version of Google Glass envisioned by Stanley Kubrick in a particularly cruel frame of mind. A face the colour of forgotten marble.
Of course this is all a temporary illness. Merely the height of a fever which, once sweated out, leaves one feeling weak, starved, and yet deliriously happy to be out of the woods and half-alive. In this case: I'm not much good as a bed nurse. I'm standing by the doorframe; sympathetically contemplating the ailing patients progress and offering to bring a glass of water. He must get himself better. Nothing can help him now except to clench his teeth and ride out the storm.
For many of my friends; the storm has hit. They are floundering on the waves of nausea; tossing and turning in a fitful sleep of unfinished essays and forgotten chapters. They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,
Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve; but starve so dreamlessly,
Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap,
Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve,
Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.
Vachel Lindsay
It's that time of year again. Jeans and boots are swiftly dropped in favour of pyjama bottoms and hole-infested ski socks. Lunch becomes a daily pilgrimage of duty and desperation; a half-hour laspe in the dreaded time/work continuum. The library becomes a blizzard of strewn pages and open textbooks, a hive of anxious, paranoid, caffiene-addled worker bees who know no difference between day and night. Witty conversation is condensed with lighting speed to worry, self-deprication and hollow retorts of half-hearted moral support from friends who are themselves too far drowned to throw a life ring.
And those faces. Those eyes; straining to focus through days of missed sleep, to see through the barrage of words and sums and diagrams. Like some grotesque version of Google Glass envisioned by Stanley Kubrick in a particularly cruel frame of mind. A face the colour of forgotten marble.
Of course this is all a temporary illness. Merely the height of a fever which, once sweated out, leaves one feeling weak, starved, and yet deliriously happy to be out of the woods and half-alive. In this case: I'm not much good as a bed nurse. I'm standing by the doorframe; sympathetically contemplating the ailing patients progress and offering to bring a glass of water. He must get himself better. Nothing can help him now except to clench his teeth and ride out the storm.
And I am waiting. I'm 'slinging beef' (as my friend calls my current waitressing job) and begging tips. I'm polishing cupboards and folding napkins. Living a life so far removed from my university life that I feel like an intruder sitting in the same library. A userper of public justice, a threat to the unspoken mob-culture of pervading misery and masochism. Waiting patiently outside the sickroom for permission to be allowed in.
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