First of all, I would like to say, DO NOT TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY I’m just being very dramatic for no reason. But there might be good points in here. But probably not. Okay. Continue.
(Also the weird formatting is because #school) (I was supposed to write a *paragraph* and I DID. It was just… a page long paragraph)
The stain of a hundred peanut butter and honey sandwiches litter the overflowing trash bin. Thin, eerie strains of Doctor Who echo through the incessant buzzing; a buzzing like a broken intercom during an electrical storm. Abandoned art projects breathe their last in their dusty home- a desk meant for productivity, long since forgotten, dismally waiting –just waiting– for its owner to remember how to come back. Remember how to function again. Papers peel from the wall and fall to the floor like a young girl’s game of he-loves-me-not. Even tape gives up sometimes. The great Alaskan Range forms as piles of untouched books, with their friends the trees- trees made of failing test grades and half-finished novels. On the dresser sits a calendar, holding a day-old bowl of cornflakes. In some ways, they’re alike. The cornflakes are the weeks and the milk is the year, dumbing down the time into an intelligible mess. It could be Monday or July or even next year- who knows! This calendar doesn’t. The untimely death of the calendar brings a world of uncertain ends and days that seem to last a little too long. A phone lights up with a text, but there’s no one here to reply. The sounds of the Doctor stutter into *something*, the only sign of change in this house of stupor. There is no beginning. There is no end. It’s all middle in this land of “quarantine”. Of course, it has its good parts, but at the root of every good thing, madness can sprout. And with madness comes… comes… comes what? There are worries. Worries about survival. The birds -just outside the window- have no worries, waltzing with the fluffed-cotton clouds. One could even call themselves covetous of nature- its carefree hours spent outside. But some have legitimate worries. Like the spider, weaving up a gnat for a light lunch, Death weaves its web, like a miser prepares his dinner table for no one but himself, and doesn’t stop to think –for one second– of the integrity of each victim. Whether they’re innocent, evil, or somewhere in between, Death takes them regardless- just like the spider will devour any bug that crosses its path. Right above the spider and its meal is one single picture of two friends laughing at an unheard joke, grinning without even a care. Friends. Even the word leaves the bitter taste of forgotten memories. Friends. The light hazy dust snowing through the air inspires boredom, laziness, and all the things that battle against productivity. One day, the sun will filter through the smog and renew the withered remains of order; make amends. But today is not that day.