My room is cold; the result of a windy, Québecois May. I sit on a wobbly, wooden chair, at an old desk, hand on forehead, glasses off. I’m thinking. Just thinking. Above me I can hear the scraping of a chair on a linoleum floor. Outside I hear distant voices from down the hall, speaking a muddle of French and English, as doors open and close. My large window, with a broken screen, overlooks the tail end of a forest, a dumpster, and the road that runs between them.
My hands now cover my face, as my attempts to be pensive are met with lamer attempts to submerse myself in darkness. The clunking of wheels on a cart break my concentration. My mind shifts to thoughts of communal bathroom cleanliness and why keys are so noisy. As these thoughts continue to wander, I catch myself chewing on my tongue, a habit I developped when I am concentraing on something. I stop, because any resembleance to a cow is not something I desire.
So I return to my original thinking, ignoring the occaisonal honking of horns, dropping coins and suspicious vaccuuming. On my wobbly, wooden chair, I rock back and forth, creating a rhythm. I return one hand to my forehead while grabbing a pen with the other. With paper in tow, I continue my thoughts and translate them to writing. I tune out the world and just sit there thinking.