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              Outbreak Magazine Issue #13 - Article 12 of 15
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Tide
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by: kaz

Hope fades in and out in the random-patterned shoreline of the sea of life. 
Some light that penetrates the deep abyss brings major change in the tide, 
other, small wakes. The first of four ill-fated periods droned on in a 
dragged, gloomy pace. Many regretting the night before, others envying 
those in their regrets, and I, blankly staring at the wall, time and time 
my eyes drawn to the clock like a moth to a headlight the instructor of the 
class drills theorem after theorem into the heads of those paying attention, 
like a general drilling his troops mind swarms.

Synapses spark in my mind as I plan out my agenda mentally how I will walk, 
how I'll carry my preoccupation, what kind of look I will have on my face 
the class bores many into sleep, but the risk runs too deep for my chancing 
of it. One of the imprisoned is caught with his head on the desk, obviously 
paralyzed by the overwhelming tedium of the class. The Gestapo questions the 
suspect, siphoning him of all information he has, what theorem the suspect 
would use on the equation, and how it applies a befuddled mix of vocal 
sounds resembling the low dying hum of an unplugged fan slowly exits the 
mouth of the suspect his mind blank from being awoken combined with the 
brain-washing effects of the class has rendered him defenseless from the 
barrage of tangents and cotangents. Seeing this, the Gestapo forces him to 
stand, as punishment for falling victim to his droning and tedium; it all 
resembles training for a war...bell.
	
I quickly take up my preoccupation and swiftly exit the classroom awkwardly 
fumbling in my steps, realizing my walk was not preferred by the masses of 
cattle, I painfully slow my step and swing my arms, yet books in hand, I 
painstakingly fit in. Head down, feet shuffled, tediously arriving I sit in 
my seat at my next class. Minutes still remain on the clock before the 
shrieking of the next bell will toll. I sit, hands together on my lap, back 
hunched, trying to stay warm in the meat locker that is my second period. 
Students pack into the room like meat on a hook, all finding the uniform 
designated location the instructor enters, the bell cries. Icy and frigid, 
much like her abode, she enters, face pursed in judgmental anguish, eyes 
darting to find a suspect to outcast. After small chat of her horrid weekend, 
in truth ambrosia compared to others, the tedium and preoccupation begins. 
Instead of departing into a detached state like slipping into a warm bath, 
the tedium drowns us all, and we are swamped in the work given. The remainder 
of the class is spent hurrying to finish the hopeless assigned preoccupation, 
and the bell tolls again for the end of the class, and masses of cattle pour 
out of their pens to find others.

After stopping at my assigned and uniformed locker to switch out binder for 
binder, books for book, I travel through the jungle of souls, down the 
twisting stairs, deeper into the gray void of the preoccupation to my next 
class. The bell cries, and all are seated. This class, unlike the others, is 
somewhat bearable in regards to the unsupervised instruction. The assignment 
is done speedily yet thoroughly by others and I, and the long void of 
preoccupation is substituted with the more dangerous void of idle. I fill 
the time on the computer searching fruitlessly for preoccupation to drone 
away the time. The time spent finding preoccupation results in preoccupation, 
and the bell for lunch soon rings.

Hungry cattle pour into the halls, pushing and shoving, a mindless mob 
mentality grips the brains of the cattle I drop my identification card into 
the labeled identification box and with the thinned masses walk to my car. I 
drive alone, only rejected 80's music that still haunts the minds of the 
radio DJ accompany on my journey to food. Arriving in the randomly pre-chosen 
destination, I enter, and the sounds of people's enjoyment hits me like a 
bat to the face. Beautiful people, ugly people, vagabonds, laborers, 
homeless, jobless, friendless, sightless, hunger is not prejudice. All united 
to the common goal of food, congregate to share stories and laughter with 
others. I fall in line and quickly order food; minutes later the 
hot-off-the-heat-lamp burritos are ready for consumption. I take it, and spy 
a booth far to the back corner, and sit. Bright sun shines on my face as I 
eat quickly, efficiency weighs priority over my tasting enjoyment, and the 
food is quickly gone. A group of people enters, and posers waly greet them. 
They're the idolized, the ideal, the poster children of acceptance, but their 
warmness is only skin deep, and their designer-clothed shells are just shells. 
They eye my booth, and order their food. Feeling that my day's welfare was 
in jeopardy, I quickly throw away the garbage, and exit my food destination. 
The sun is high, I drive back to school with minutes to spare, and spend them 
sitting in my car, three minutes. I return to class.

The remainder of the period is spent as the prior half the period, and the 
preoccupation of searching for preoccupation avails void preoccupation yet 
again, and the bell rings for the fourth and final period, I exit the prior, 
and enter the latter. Yet again entering, I routinely and unconsciously find 
my seat, place my books under my desk, write the notes down, take the quiz, 
and sit quietly. It's not until thirty minutes is left in the class that I 
return to reality, and check the clock, it's hands placed on the three. 
Murmurs again fade in like the tide of the sea, synapses flicker in my mind, 
I envy their idolization, yet know that I only envy it because I don't have 
it. The tide fades in and out, the tide brings hope, but recedes with it, 
then fades softly away. The bell's final toll of the day awakens me back to 
the reality presented to me. I leave with the tide.
