When you’re in a routine, time seems of infinite depth, like two mirrors arranged in parallel, reflecting the abstract world with biting lucidity; a daily-occurring period has all the echoes of those of the past, and is pregnant with the anticipation that accompanies those of the future. It was a vaguely pleasant time, school – but it always seemed to lack a certain autochthonous vibrancy, as if the time expended came with its quota of anaesthesia, and we were expected to compensate somehow, all congenitally groggy and unamused. It was the breeding ground, sure, of ideas and mirth, yet these invariably took our lives firmly by the hand into late nights heavy-lidded and caffeine-sustained. Condensing this passage of time conceptually – efficiently – now renders it a moderate shade of rewarding, but one wonders how many of the reality-constructing trivialities we forget, and questions the validity of looking back fondly on something I had greater expectations of.
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Now I’m in a veritable parody of school. There isn’t much to be gleaned by reflecting on this, not anymore.
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