The room was hot.
A comfortable academic addressed the audience,
His voice mundane, his words conventional, his passion long since wilted,
Like the warm bottle of water sitting on my desk with pale enthusiasm.
But the room was hot.
My toes flexed with sharp tension,
Against the dull padding of my suffocating sneakers.
My back sweated anxiously,
Confronted with the stifling freedom of my soft cushioned seat.
The other students looked on with a cool composure
As my body began to burn with a restless fury,
As if I was stuck in the traffic of monotony,
Time slowly moving, then pausing,
Awaiting my next droplet of sweat-rage with mocking serenity.
I took a sip of water from the warm plastic bottle,
Natural spring water, it said. Molten to plastic perfection.
My scalp turned itchy, my ears turned red,
My mind turned ablaze with images of fiery revolution
And then the cold torrents of a sweet silent rain.
But what's this? A conclusion! Collaborators!
I clapped and smiled politely,
Quietly scurrying out of that dying room,
And into the tranquil wind of possibility.