Thoughts, Unflitered (?)

She sits beside me in class. The professor walks in and turns the projector on and I know I ought to be listening but I keep looking at the girl and the way she keeps playing with her hair lest it gets into her eyes. Darkness. Each thread of her hair a river, a creek, a coiling stream that leads to the infinite sea of cosmos. And they reach her bare shoulders. Pale. Her skin reflects the memories of a ghost, the reflections of a distant time, of tears shed long ago, suspended, midair, never reaching the ground. All in the color of her skin. And I say, come to me, my love, let me pour a pinch of salt on your sorrows, and she says, with a toss of her hair, how will that help anyone? And I say that it is only through one’s sorrows that two hearts can be connected, and you say, sure. But your mind is elsewhere, your eyes resting on the projector, your hand hastily scribbling down what is written on the screen. You care about your education, and your self-worth, and your career in this goal-oriented culture, your every movement says that you are eternal, that you will be an integral piece of our well-oiled machine. And I say let me help you, let me guide you toward the summit where you have left the pieces of your soul, they have awaited your arrival long enough. And I stand to proclaim my devotion to all the other eager learners whom I have never spoken to, but as soon as I stand on my feet, I crumble. In shambles. And the lecture continues. And the ambitious hands scribble on, and on, and on. And when the professor wishes us a good weekend, I see the girl walking past me, toward her goals, toward a life full of adventures, for that is what the world tells us to desire. And I lay there, my figure positioned on the floor like a crooked swastika, bones broken, weak, lips moving, barely. Yet the thoughts come, unfiltered.