Katherine Mansfield

Exactly thirty-three minutes ago marked the beginning of Finals Week. Appropriately, I've been studying more or less all day.
It's gotten to the point where I feel like I'm melting into the bed on which I'm sprawled, and my nose, which nearly touches my open British Literature Anthology in earnestness, is simply sinking into its pages.
Then of course I have to sit up, make the awkward half-leap from bed to chair to floor, and hurry into the hallway under pretense of getting a drink. There, in the semi-darkness, I can breathe again.

Another result of my prolonged time in our small dorm room is that I am now well attuned to Ally's coughs. She has a cold of some sort, and every time I hear a sharp intake of air from her loft, I brace myself for the short hacking cough that follows. Each one lasts no longer than a second, but every so often there will be several of them in a row. It is then that I have to hunch down against my papers and close my eyes.

I'm still plugging away, though. One 750-word Brit. Lit. Essay, and 58 pages of reading in my crusades book left. Then I can shower and fall into sleep.

It's funny, but sometimes I long so much to be at home that I throw myself into my work in order to make Wednesday come faster. Other times I forget why I even want to leave. Why would I leave this life of friends and school, where my only real job is to learn as much as I can, and retain some semblance of what I learn?

I feel like the vague hero in some Shakespeare play. Hamlet, maybe? "To study, or not to study, that is the question!"
It's no question, really, I know. Still, I think it's one I'll be constantly asking myself until all is done.

You can go back to whatever you're doing now. But before you drop into your recliner, the TV remote stuck to your hand with a crust of popcorn grease and relaxation, please throw a few thoughts back for me. I'll be here.

P.S. Forgive the desperate title. It's the author of the short story I'm analyzing for my essay.