In every Person's Heart

There lies in every person’s heart a dream of comfort. It is a little spark that is something a bit more than hope, but not quite an active aspiration. Sometimes, when a person is very lucky and still, it seeps into existence for very quick unequivocally delightful moments. That little dream embedded in the caves of a soul is something like a utopia, not universal by any means, but a fragment or shimmer - the passive reminder of why every day we get out of bed. This is what drags us out of deep perils of sadness.
It glimmers like a shard of glass catching an unsuspecting eye, grabbing attentions, redirecting thoughts.

Beyond its iridescent qualities, however, this tiny dream is not altogether a reality. This is what is most sad about the human construction. Within out imagination, this little dream that is our comfort is composed with the greatest and most honest of intentions. Its perfect creation in our deepest recesses is infused with the hope of life and happiness. With its secretiveness and its imagination, without infusion or exposure, it becomes nought but perfectly formatted cardboard blocks, painted in solid-coloured, matt paint.

In its truth, within our selves, it collects no dust; it processes no daily necessity but admiration. It is a construction with the power and strength of human conviction, but when introduced to our cemented sidewalks, our masses of people all carrying our separate hopes, building big buildings and organizing information into recognizable patterns, it becomes selfish and shallow.

What breeds deflation of our perfect perception is that of sitting and staring in awe. We may sit in appreciation of life, but without discerning its moveable parts exactly nothing happens. Without winds, mountains are neither built nor dispersed.

When there is no motion, like what is presently happening, the dream of comfort lacks luster. The point loses direction. And I continually think life will happen tomorrow.

Several confessions to note:

I am beyond all measures pretentious – a direct consequence of an acute ability not to listen and discern, and a horrific lack of exposure to the daylight of other countries.

There is an extreme lack of humanity in my sphere. And in conclusion (not to be misinterpreted with a lack of romance or passion) I am a terribly lonely person.

I hate my classmates.

The time is 7:56 pm.
The classroom is composed of wooden chairs with their individual wooden writing slates.
The chairs turn and when they turn they creek loudly enough to drown out the soft spoken.
The professor is mumbling over his stumbling bits of sentences that more or less come to no real definitive point, as mumbling often denotes grey area.

It strikes. It struck more quickly then unchecked mildew growth in bathtubs but not so quickly as electrical currents finding a complete circuit. …

The words, the disgusting elitist words, the unexciting uninspiring ideas they’re knocking each other in the air in front of my face. Watching them is all I do, it’s so dispassionate so off putting. It’s frankly boring as shit – and this was an exciting novel.
People are saying things and talking, simply rearranging presented facts and wondering aloud “Well – how did Heathcliff earn all that money?”
WHOFUCKINGCARESTHATSWHYITSNOTINTHENOVEL

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(That’s what it feels like when my heart clinches with irritation.)
Paint a picture of inferences you morons. Write a song.
There’s a reason it was never made into words.

Conclusion:
I am a terrible judgmental classmate and an unfeeling person.
But don’t waste my learning time by being snooty, repetitive, redundant and uncreative.