Here again

I'm here again. Sitting at a desk at Robarts on a Sunday afternoon. Trying to think up the words to type. For the right ones to appear on my computer screen.

Here's the first piece from this school year.

Let's go back.

Happy Studying Everyone!

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I’ve always liked watching people. And I am sure that I’m not the only one. As creepy as it sounds, the few moments spent watching someone else makes me feel like I have a glimpse of their life. It is the kind of quiet that is not so silent that one hears a buzzing sound, but the kind of quiet with a comfortable rhythm to it. I can hear the air circulating through the building, the hand-dryer shooting out air and the subtle noises of students.
On my desk, it is slightly dusty with a few stray hairs from a student who must have been here previously. They are black hairs; similar to my own but much shorter. Certainly it was someone with short hair, perhaps a boy. It reminds me of my residence room’s carpet, except the colour of the desk does not sneakily hide dirtiness. Instead, it so honestly displays proof of previous users, unlike the dark greyish-blue pattern on my carpet which always appears clean.

To my left, I see students who are studying at the same desk. I wonder if they know each other or if there was an awkward “May I please sit here” when they arrived. One girl uses a Mac laptop. She stares intently at the screen and has not shifted position in quite a while. Perhaps she is very concentrated on her work; perhaps she is distracted by the internet. The girl sitting opposite her is turned perpendicular to the desk so that she props both feet up onto the chair next to her. She is wearing black running shoes and has a red scarf. The book seems not to be a textbook, but for enjoyment and she is very concentrated in reading it. She reads with a slight smile on her face. As she gets up to help her friend across the table, her hair swings and swishes; it is down to her waist. So they do know each other.

The longer I sit here, the colder the library seems. I think I am still sick, so once in a while, I cough. It’s a terrible, loud cough, but it clears my throat and I feel better, at least for the time being. My hands are cold too, but my right hand more than my left. I wonder why the feeling is so different in each hand. I am tired from the fire alarm incident this morning and I wish I had gotten more sleep; even just the hour and a half that I missed this morning. Sometimes, I feel my eyes starts to close, but I yawn and feel better. I throat is dry and I can smell the dusty smell of books. I hear the scuffing of shoes in the next area over, the gentle tapping of fingers on a keyboard; typing, my own and also many others. I cough again; the sound is slightly less terrible than before. Perhaps I am getting better. I hope that I am getting better.

At the next table over, a couple is studying together. The girl takes a sip from her apple juice container and shakes it. It is empty.  The boy has an Adidas bag on the ground next to him. He is wearing shorts and a University of Toronto sweater. He continuously taps his foot as he twirls his pen in his right hand and sometimes, puts it onto paper. The girl has dyed caramel and black hair, a strange combination, but somehow, it looks nice, almost natural on her. Her hair is long; halfway down her back. As she looks up, the boy is looking back at her, she smiles and they hug before turning back to their own work. I cough again. This time, I hear the sound echo around the room. I hear another cough; not my own. Maybe, my cough has given someone else the courage to cough too? But it isn’t like you need permission.

I feel even colder now than before. I hear the hand-dryer again and I think of warmth. The warmth of the hand-dryer, of my room; though it is not that much warmer, and outside. Soon, I will be heading outside again; taking a walk to complete some errands. My elbows hurt from being propped up on the desk in order to type and I am starting to feel restless. I see a boy walk past my desk, back to the computers on the other side of the library. He sighs and drags his feet. He towers over everyone else as he approaches his computer. As he pulls out his chair, he adjusts his glasses and leans over to read what is written on the screen.

I cough again. The room now smells damp. It must be my imagination. My fear of mold as the patch of dark furry green stuff on the wall of my closet, I look forward to tomorrow morning at eight; when the porter will be able to help me. I hope she will be able to. I cannot tell what time it is in here, just like in my basement room, but when I look outside, I am surprised to find that it is still light; the middle of the afternoon. The blinds block most of the view, but I can see some green; a tree. My eyes feel dry and my contacts are becoming blurry. Another boy walks past my desk. His huge backpack suggests it is full of books. He must have a lot of homework, readings and things to carry. It reminds me of the work I still need to do and I am feeling nervous and stressed.

A routine feeling.