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skull mixing

skull mixing

Psychology changed, and it’s taken me a while to identify the emotion I was struggling with in class. It was disappointment, but the kind of disappointment that’s hard to admit to yourself, cause it had to own up to the idea that the curricula was the same and that the change in Psychology was mine, and the world’s.

I told myself to regroup and re-ride another learning curve silently in the passenger seat, but according to the time assessment completed, I couldn’t really fit my whole mind in the vehicle without some damage. So I padded up, fine with scratches and prepared for a broken skull. It wasn’t really all that bad, yet the feeling got progressively stronger, until the bell for Round One had been rung.

I was a champion and could rest again, but not really, because a grade in any psychology course doesn’t correlate to mental health. I felt equally happy and gray, undecided which to change into throughout each day. Maybe it was the underlying lack of connection, or the attempts thereof that felt forced, unusual, and unreal.

I was talking to a woman today adamant to speak to me on camera, who asked if she could be blunt with me about her opinion and of course I told her to shoot, but all she did was put her pinkie finger near the trigger, more concerned about my judging how she shoots rather than focusing on her aim. It reminded me of class, and of aging, because I’m older than most of the people I work with, which I’ve not formed an opinion about yet, but it’s probably nearby.

This one probably doesn’t make sense either. Writing is for love and sanity. At least that much makes sense.

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