My eyes were struggling to remain open, it seemed as though they were being weighed down with lead, and I found myself being consumed with darkness, at least up until I woke myself back up again and continued scratching away with my pencil. I was studying, the nightly ritual that I loved, yet also hated, in my artificially lighted bedroom as the hour was approaching ten o'clock in the evening. I was seated at my usual desk with the ice-cold metal chair, surrounded by an assortment of colored rollerball pens, each of which had a specific purpose. In front of me were my biology notes, color-coded and neatly rewritten onto lined paper, and I found myself scrambling through them for what felt like the millionth time, scrutinizing all of the details.
My mind was so clouded with worry, as I could not imagine a grade less than perfect, that all of the background noise-- the television downstairs, my younger sibling yelling or running around, my parents organizing the house for work the next day-- was drowned out by the voice in my head repeating that I was not prepared for the test, that I did not know anything. I knew this to be untrue. I have been studying for hours, days even, but that did not seem to matter. As I studied each night, I was simply always accompanied by a voice telling me I was not finished or that I still did not understand a concept, but then eventually, it was interrupted by my eyelids unwillingly closing once again.
As I regained alertness, I felt beneath my hands all of the eraser dust shifting around, and I brushed it away quickly, as it seemed to irritate me. I continued ...
