languid

1

I gaze with blurred vision into the depths of some histology textbook, blind to its words and lost in my weary dreams. In two days my struggle with university life will be over - temporarily; yet I feel no joy, I feel no excitement at the thought of going home, I feel nothing.2

The wet heat of the atmosphere clings to my clothes and fogs up my brain with sleep and discomfort. I hate it here but home brings no solace, merely images of 'lukewarmness', legalism and bitterness. My thoughts shift to images of hiking and  raw beauty and I remember the love/hate battle I wage with this country. Its dirty streets and rain forest temperatures disgust my senses and contrast infinitely with the rapture of its mountains, the calming beauty of its streams and fountains... no I don't want to go home.3

In two days the final test of my meagre knowledge will be over and my mind will be free to roam, my legs free to wander. The weight of insecurity and anxiety sleeps heavily on my chest and my eyes adjust to read one more page of anatomical drudgery. I cannot fail yet I feel no motivation to prepare. My concentration seems weaker than that of an infant as my eyes once again loose sight of the page. I feel utterly overwhelmed. Thoughts of tears and the taste of chyme remind me of old habits and I drink some water to calm myself. I am afraid and unprepared.4

The old grey fan circulates the warm air in my cluttered room, I turn the page, still blind to its meaning. My fingers find a pen and I begin my interpretation of knowledge. Knowledge I cannot recall, facts I cannot comprehend, formulae I have never seen... yet my fingers continue to transform the page, they alone can pass my exam.5