exam season blog #ultimo
On the way to my second exam, I am frantically flipping over my notes; as I disembark, a man on the train wishes me good luck with my studies. "I'll need it," I think.
On the bus to university, a backpacker swaps sides to avoid the glare of the sun. He leaves a small coin - maybe a euro - on his seat, and I point it out. He thanks me in a thick accent, says I have very good eyes. "I hope so," I think.
In the university library's sensory room, I am the only one there. It is dim, and I shift the movable furniture into a fort around my body. The weighted blanket is heavy atop me as I try desperately to internalise the origins and insertions of muscles in the suboccipital triangle of the neck. Here, I regress: I am in utero again, and I am small, and safe.
The next two days pass in a haze. I don't leave my temporary womb, not really. When I emerge from my final spotter exam at 10:05am, the sun is out. I sneeze, because I didn't take my hayfever medication (I only have Zyrtec, which gives you brain fog), and the air is breathing pollen over the Bilya Maali. I suckle my plastic water bottle like a teat. I am born.