When I woke up, my room was dark. I didn’t want to wakeup. I only wanted to keep sleeping, keep sleeping and have a ghost read for and write my exams for me.
The time on my phone showed 3- something-a.m. Neither of my alarms had made me proud.
Four more days hunnie, I tried to trick my lazy bones into getting up. I picked up my note on Survey of English Literature; I couldn’t read a single thing. I couldn’t understand. Not that I couldn’t comprehend, I just couldn’t understand. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t understand what I was reading. The frustration set in, then the fear, and finally the tears.
The course was a simple one, just a couple of stories and poems and analysis of texts, texts probably older than my ancestors. But notwithstanding, the fear was real. I flew back to the memories of my scores in tests and assignments for that semester and my tears became wetter and warmer.
Lord, I can’t have any carryover, I’m too young for that.
3 am to 6 am, I sulked. I thought about the next courses. Courses I hadn’t exactly gone halfway reading, yet I was going to write two of them the next day.
God, into your hands I commit my hands too.
I wanted to give up. I wanted to stop reading. I wanted to give in to my frustration.
Then, I remembered the lyrics to a song…
“But as the river keeps flowing, I’ll keep on moving on.”
So I picked up my book again. We stared into each other’s eyes. I couldn’t afford to not keep moving, to not keep reading no matter the mental lethargy and negativity. So I kept staring, staring into my note until my eyelids winked at the pages but didn’t open again, until hours later.
Mirabelle Morah
