Fifty minutes.
Up.
Out.
New class.
Same spiel.
Every day dreading the alarm clock a little bit more.
Hoping, praying for a fire drill.
Something to take me out of this perfunctory daze.
There is disparity in the streets.
Depravity in the capital.
But here I am.
Sequestered from the revolt of a generation.
Tucked into a bubble.
Aimlessly floating amidst a sea of contemporaries.
Rocking back and forth between soporific lectures.
Outside lies a protest with an eye to change the world.
Backed by a mob of ubiquitous allies, eager to reform.
But here I am.
Drowning in my own potential.
Furrowed into a nest of lethargic week days.
Temporarily numbed by the “freedom” of the weekend.
Repetition has wrapped its deathly coils around my brain.
Cutting off a circulation of creativity and copious amounts of ingenuity.
But here I am.