I stare up at the ceiling again, my mind somehow convinced that it will tell me what to write, but it doesn’t. I keep staring, noticing that it is a pattern of squiggly lines and dots. My mind tells me to write a story, but I know that whatever letters my pencil scrawls will just be added to my mental list of things that I would rip up if I could. As my hands turn the pages of my notebook, my eyes watch the letters, trying to read them as a story, when they are, in fact, a pathetic excuse for a story, filled to the brim with quixotic scenes that make sense only to me, or not even that. I catch my eyes wandering the classroom, wondering how long it could possibly take for the class to finish the grammar quiz.

As if on cue, my teacher stands up, and gives us a good job speech. I tune her out and keep imaging writing something. She starts talking about Gilgamesh. I don’t really listen. Maybe I should listen; maybe it would help me more than my stories, but I don’t. I don’t want to listen. She talks about Enuma Elish, and about Shiva. I debate in my head whether it would be interesting or worthwhile to paint the air conditioning unit. The class debates the god of destruction vs the god of spring. The bell rings, and I leave my notebook of failings to marvel over later.