A Wednesday In September

By Rebekah Booth

Bellyache by Billie Eilish plays on low in our otherwise quiet room. Rhythmic clicks sound from my roommate’s laptop—she’s studying Spanish. Soft sunlight filters in through our blinds, mixing with her pink lamplight and my yellow stars. Black Beauty by Lana del Ray at 3:09 on a Wednesday in September. I’m going to game night later, but all I really want to do is take a nap. Week three of classes and I’m already creatively burnt out—I’m hoping this helps.

 It does. A little. 

It’s kind of funny, (C’est la Vie by Karen Biehl), our room is in a constant state of dusk. Only warm rose and gentle golds light our shared space, dotted with plants and draped in plush blankets and soothed by the hum of fans. Aside from this pleasant symbiosis, we are exact opposites, my roommate and I. I decorate like I live here, and she decorates like she’s gonna leave tomorrow. Minimalist versus Maximalist. Movie posters and plants versus sorority pink. 

I wonder what she thinks of me. She doesn’t talk much—never more than necessary, really. I’m not sure she likes me, but I’m also not sure why. Maybe for the same reason I’m not sure if I like her. I don’t dislike her; she’s just so different from all of my own friends that it’s difficult to feel anything but vaguely uncomfortable. 

Heather by Conan Gray and it is 3:22 p.m. I’m meeting my best friend at four, I think. My head aches at the base of my skull and in the center of my forehead, which means I’m dehydrated and tired. My ass is numb but I know if I lie down my hair will flatten out and I’ll look like I got electrocuted. Nothing for it, then. 

I’m wondering if this is what the inside of my brain looks like. One continuous stream of thought with tornado sounds (National Geographic) in the background. I’ll never know, but it’s fun to think about.

I’ve always wondered how someone would react if they could be inside my brain for a little while. Would they be confused? They’d probably want to leave if we’re being realistic, but I’m not. Being realistic, I mean. I genuinely want someone to analyze my thought process and be able to tell me whether or not my stream is normal or abnormal so I can finally justify all the little hangups I keep to myself. But that’s impossible, so I’m writing it all here to get the neverending narrative in my mind to move again. 

It is currently 3:37 on a Wednesday in September, and all I’ve written are pages of nonsense that make sense to me. 

It is 3:38 and nothing has changed. 

END.

By Rebekah Booth