Is it over?

Marching through the wintercourse of daily life on the commencement of examlihood, one canst perhaps get a sounding for the deep sense of dread and awe that has overflown into the wellsprings of the university. Nothing does anymore, more like quitting and starting again. So much for early year promises of indulging in pre-exam period study, and for 'working hard all year long'. Sometimes it seems the year-long is so much longer.

And they sat there thinking that they had made some crazy mistake. Perched in the forefront of their vision, like a silent mockery of social and ecconomic justices many and varied, was the tyranical form of the exams. Hulking and huge, like a bohemoth that cannot be overcome, or the sacred piece of land loaned out to the underworthy. There is always so much to talk about, but environs always seem to end in a 'no but thanks for asking'. We could weave our entertainment into spasmodic melodies. Harmonies and symphonies, and taken aback, they lay there, half awake, half asleep. Chalk outlines on the lawn-and-concrete-surface of modern life. They twitter like hyperventilating sparrows and mock and jeer with rhapsodic voices. I wish, now, that I had last year all over again, as it was a wonderful year. Rueing, that is the word. And the work. Seems dissappointments always fail to make appointments, and they take it like the dead. Stoic and unfriendly, almost xenophobic, they stare across the vicious morass of a society they have so freely ammalgamated with. They dance aloud, always muttering about how surgery seems to take them that next step higher, nearer the clouds, closer to the sun that draws them like a fly to the trap.

It's almost Darwinian, if such a trend exists. No sooner is the flat pancake of life flipped than an almost anomalous visiter from another solar system is laid flat on their doorstep. Anxious. Vital. They measure their lives by the beating of their heart, and get scared when environmental noise pollution threatens their way of life. It is always nice to watch the butterfly emerge from it's coccoon, to flutter away in the breeze in its too-short life. But the more you think about it, the sadder it seems, till butterflies draw nought but tears from the sad faces they flutter past. But all things die, or so they have been led to believe. As they lay there, the checkerboard sunlight playing shadow puppets on their upturned faces. MAybe oneday they will be ready for the step ahead. Until then, they keep their heads down, close to their books in the futile hope that that day will not catch them napping.