His chin sank into his palm, fingers pacing his face. Delayed, forced exhalations puffed out. His shoulders twisted, searching a place of just-right.
Noise sputtered from the adjacent room, at a irregular time, and a mumbling volume. His attention pulled, trying to decipher the sounds, but also not caring. A twinge akin to biting into something sweet you expected to be savory. The laugh-track plays on.
Sticky-notes filled the wall, like a kindergartner’s collage. Some were written in smudged pencil, some in thick marker, and others in pen, the pencil not being raised enough. In some roundabout way, they probably said the same thing: ‘procrastination’. They were his wall’s nicotine patches none-the-less.
Books cover surfaces, partially finished. Some are for learning, some for ‘creative inspiration’. Musical instruments are shimmied in small breaks between furniture, collecting dust. Though, he attempted to wipe it off periodically, as to not make him feel guilty.
The floor creaks from pacing roommates. Whether it was due to fear of talking to him, for pure irritation, or just due to indecision, he couldn’t know for sure. But either way, it left him unable to make his thought clear and stationary.
The chattering, and shadows from under the door make the television seems unnecessary. So, he gently prayed they would silence it. Not too hard though, inaudible discussion was most definitely a more distressing.
As the night settled in, silence finally came.
As his hand made motions of productivity, his eyes slowly stole darkness, and he sank into a silent dream.