The grass was soft, carpet-like almost. It was also mildly wet, but not unpleasantly so. The smell of grass in the morning was intoxicating to me, as if it smelled of bright and sunny days, of painted blue skies and bare strokes of white clouds. It smelled like sunshine and riverbanks. I love mornings like this, when I could just lie on the grass and let my worries stay in the classrooms, absorbed in this morning solace that comes only once a fortnight.
I hate the rain that came to spoil the sunshine. The trickling of menacing raindrops on the roofs, like nails being shaken and stirred in a metal jar, was always greeted with the unaccepting sigh of a soul expecting the rest of the day to be miserable and unsatisfying. But this day, at that moment in time, the sunshine greeted me with its glowing radiance, and I was half-expecting the day to be a great one. The other half expected it to be at least a good one.
I was thinking of her then. It would’ve been great if she was here, I said to myself. I looked to the empty patch of grass just beside me, and I tried hard to imagine her there, chatting with me, about anything and everything. Even about nothing. I would’ve gladly spent hours with her than do anything else. Even if we did nothing but lie on the grass and talk. I wouldn’t even need to face her. Just hearing her voice would’ve been enough. That’s not to say she didn’t have a face worth looking at. It was quite the contrary. She was beautiful, in every sense of the word. Beautiful on the outside, and also on the inside, or at least that’s how the cliché goes. And for her, that was true.
The grass had slightly dried after what was maybe three hours of idle thoughts, and no longer did it smell fresh. Instead it mildly smelled much like burnt leaves and branches. The heat from the sunshine had intensified, and my skin longed for moisture. I didn’t realise I had spent too much in the sun until I heard someone calling my name, and said something about if I wanted to go to lunch. I picked myself up, and left the grass field with a slightly remorseful aftertaste.
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I’m quite satisfied with my Maths C1 and C2 paper. I’m pretty sure I’ll get an A in each, bar a major cock-up that I still have not realised. C1 was ridiculously easy. I had to take three minutes rest in between questions just to make sure I didn’t have too much time left after I’ve finished. Still, I finished an hour early, so I had to check my answers slowly and carefully, twice, just to waste time. I know, I shouldn’t be bragging about how easy it was. Usually it’s the beginning of a pretty sorrowful story. Y’know, the one in which the guy thinks he’s done extremely well in his paper, and finds out later in the year that he failed. But never mind, I’m not the superstitious kind anyway. And to be honest, I don’t really care if I get a miserable mark. Not for me anyway. Maybe for my choice of universities, but personally I wouldn’t mind.
I’m so happy with my latest English mocks results for the Section B part of ‘Antony & Cleopatra’. I got 27 out of 30, and that’s a high A. Two months ago I was struggling and getting C’s and cursing myself over why I took English as my teaching subject rather than a science. Now I’m quite happy with myself for making that choice.
I’ll be happier if I get an A in English than if I get 100% in any of the sciences or Maths, and that’s because I don’t think science and Maths exams properly reflect how good you are in the subject. I rate English as a subject (and any other humanities for that matter) because much of it is your own opinion. Sure, you have to study for it, but only because you need to know the material to form an opinion. To be extremely honest, I’d rather have no exams at all, and not because I find exams troublesome and cumbersome. Well, partly. But mostly because I find it intellectually irrelevant and systematically flawed. You’d probably do better if you memorised the whole syllabus rather than understanding it. That’s what I think anyway.
Signing out
Over and out
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