☞ paper slips ☜

Dim, warm light is detrimental to the act of concentration. Dimness, the state of a room which is not dark and yet not sufficiently bright, invokes a sense of sleepiness. The colour yellow - my surroundings are awash in a permanent sea; every tide that breaks the shore screams please, just let me go to bed already.

As a functioning college student, this arrangement displeases me greatly. My grades depend on the act of staying awake, UberEats in hand, praying that the McDonald’s on Rye Lane is somehow still open at four in the morning (it is not). Many a time I have looked up at my ceiling, the accursed yellow orb a sorry excuse of a light - as tormenting as the sun from Teletubbies. I wonder endlessly; why would someone choose warm light as the main light source in a dorm room? This argument is undoubtedly a first-world problem to which I do not deny, as I sit comfortably on my bed, eyes growing square from my laptop screen (which might I add, is measures brighter than the rest of my room.)

Bad design exists all around us, but in my case, it exists right on top of my sleeping space. Right next to the wailing, slightly faulty fire alarm reminiscent of the bomb siren back at home - it’s like the unholy matrimony of socks and sandals.

I conducted a study - albeit, a very basic one. The shared kitchen in Loring Hall, Block A, Flat Seven uses blindingly white light, a stark contrast to what I have to live with. I, with my unstyled, fever-stricken body, writing the novel that I will never finish at half past two. The results were clear: a thousand words in the kitchen and fifty YouTube videos in my room.

A friend of mine in a different block - her room is bright and stark white, a cleaner slate than twice-bleached bathroom tiles. I envy her and her conducive environment. Of course, I could work in my own kitchen but it is cold and the slamming doors of my flatmates create a cacophonic catastrophe of sound and ambiance.

The miniature sun which hangs his stupid, infuriating face above mine every day. There is something strangely perverse about it, like a voyeuristic presence constantly illuminating the bare organs of my personal space. I would rather have the disco ball of a retro-synthwave club and its pulsating flashes of light akin to a seizure. I would rather have a sinister, red Chinese lantern hanging from my wall. I do not enjoy the calm and quiet that my own light emanates because its tranquility feels-

year six is taking a really big toll on me: it’s my last year in my school before I move on to university and the year that I finish up the IB diploma programme. I expected it to be difficult, to be hell on earth - and in some ways my expectations are fulfilled, in some ways the workload has exceeded them. it’s only the beginning of february; january was filled with late nights that were so close to the break of dawn they could hardly be considered night - and already my mind is as tired as my body. which is, to say the least, exhausted. but it’s fulfilling to watch as the red of uncompleted assignments turn green with every submission, the ticks off of lists of things to do; watch as my sinful hands finish essay after essay, painting after painting. I am stressed. I am tired. but I know it’s not the end of the world yet, and maybe that’s enough for me. 

don’t give up yet. I will tell myself this at four thirty in morning, caffeine fuelled and shaking with the prospect of unfinished work, don’t give up yet. I didn’t come all this way to sit on the floor and cry. I came to get my diploma and I will leave with it. I came to get my diploma and I will leave with it.