There are times when it's all repetition, and some pray to get away from it all. It's been the same routine for four years now: sleep, study, eat, study, chat, and study. We tap our pens against our little desks amidst the dutiful silence in the classroom, and type furiously in dark bedrooms sporting even darker circles under our eyes. At the end of the day, it's all stress, frustration, rants and triumph.
And then there's frantic toe-tapping. We stomp, leap and cry until we shake the very foundations we've built up to these few moments. Perspiration, salty tears and splitting grins are what constitute this. It must be difficult for each of us to keep our voices down as we relive this particular song—no, anthem of repetition. Our lungs will be screaming for air as we close our eyes and call to mind our duties, laughs, and the dark circles under our eyes. It will be the last time we play the same song, but at the end of the day, it's all stress, frustration and finally, glory.
YOU ARE READING
hoi polloi: a collection of prose poetry
Short Storyhoi polloi: "the many" (In English, it has been corrupted by giving it a negative connotation to signify deprecation of the working class, commoners, the masses or common people in a derogatory or, more often today, ironic sense.) A collection of wo...
