First Soliloquy, Something Like English Class

Most classrooms are constructed in a rectangular fashion--as is the case with most corporate buildings in America. The English room bares no exception to this basic law of construction, as learned in a class for future architects that must've been called Cubes 101 or something like that. Well, despite this prismic construction, the actual motif of the room resembles more of a Bermuda triangle, with apathetic teenagers, drooling on their scrawled-over desks with glazed eyes taking up one base corner, the teacher's desk taking up the other, and the dysfunctional wall clock dwelling at the apex. Where I sit amongst the aforesaid drooling teens, along the base line of the triangle, is about sixty-five degrees away from the clock; so it's definitely at an angle where I can see it without much opposition through my periph. And on Tuesday the 22nd, I happened to have moved one desk over, so that I positioned in a straight-shot line from the clock. This would not have posed much of a problem had I not been so easily distracted by its sporadic, metallic ticking, only noticeable in the lulls between the teacher's long-winded lectures on transcendentalists (these lulls, in their respective silence, practically scream teenage anxiety and lethargy, a strange and somewhat paradoxical blend of emotions). The ticking...the horrible ticking. My ability to focus was slowly slipping away, dwindling, sliding through my fingers like mercury. I clung to my attention span desperately, like a small child clings to their mother amidst the zoo affectionately known as Disney World. When it became apparent to me that these endeavors were in vain, I gave up on trying to pay attention, and began to write, in my barely legible Edwardian script, a sort of...status, if you will. I maped out whatever I was feeling and thinking at that precise moment in time. Here is what I wrote:

I feel like I'm literally going to vomit. I'm sitting here, in this forsaken room, and I am noticing--with a sort of renewed yet equally warped perception--things I'd not noticed before. For instance, it's apparent to me that there are blemishes of red and green marker staining the white surface of the white board; remnants of some kiss-up's attempt to erase the board. They linger there, like hieroglyphics telling the archaeologists, who will scour the ruins of our school once one of those low flying planes finally crashes into our questionable building perched out of the way of the 'worldly people' up on its sacred little precipice, of a lesson no one cared about--we were all too busy looking out of the window when the plane smashed into us. I wonder if they will find my chair, and my desk. They would know it to be mine, of course--anyone with an elementary school education could deduce that someone named Brianna sat at that desk from there being the name Brianna written on its surface. This morbid daydream pirouettes out of my mind as quickly as it waltzed in. Now I'm staring at the scuffed-up beige tile floor, in a mixture of rapture and contempt at such a bland and muted tone. I'm wishing that this floor would fall back to reveal an icy, yawning void, like the chasm Ginungugap of ancient Norse mythology, and that I would go hurtling into the shadowy eternity.

Before I could reach the pinnacle of my despair, the bell rang, and ended my dastardly reverie, sending me scooting off to the next 45 minutes of pure, unadulterated torture.