Inescapable, room of 102 Thompson Hall oppressively wears away at your resolve as it threatens to plunge you into sleep. Illuminated by the dim softness of recessed lights, the humid air weighs heavily on your eyes as the almond brown wood paneling embraces the curvature of the walls, modestly meeting the golden trimmed satin of the stage curtain. Bowing the double belted stage bulges outward into the base of the lectern where ruffled papers droop limply over the edge, slumped onto the lip of the podium. The projector lets out a gentle sigh as it idles, not quite on, not quite off. Its blank canvas dances as dewdrops of light shift ever so slightly, before changing partners, waltzing through the air on beams of hazy blue light, before dissolving into the ceiling. A transposition of stairs reflects the sloping hall, distinguished only by the intermittent folding of black and white into the darkness behind your head. Perhaps it’s the way the paneling catches the light carrying it across the windowless walls or the golden honey slicked floorboards of the stage relaxing your grip on consciousness, lulling you into a comfortable familiarity as you struggle against the current.
Your head snaps forward as the double doors bat on their hinges, creaking and another student trickles into the hall. His feet scuff the carpet as he squirms past the aisle seats into the center. A deep set frown creases his eyebrows as his backpack hits the floor, weakly collapsing into itself. He tucks his chin and pushing into the air he sinks into his chair. Consumed by the warm stillness he too lingers on the verge of sleep, seemingly lost in the distant crashing of waves. You knew that if you could just rest your eyes for just a moment, you could make it through this class. It feels as if only a second; simply a slow blink. Yet the empty chairs were now speckled with weary students.
Suddenly, in the final few minutes before class is set to begin, a gentle drip becomes a full deluge as nearly a hundred students frantically rush to grab a seat. The auditorium becomes a drum chamber, echoing with the steady tenor of cicada song as book stands squeak, jackets rustle, and students excitedly call out to one another. You join the fray hurriedly bending to rummage through your backpack. Here, sleep is impossible. The room is alive with the constellations of bright laptop screens aglow, early everyones’ face cast in white light. Although the room itself has not changed, it buzzes with hurried activity, overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Amidst the uproar the professor shuffles down the aisle, her mid length gray bob springing with each step as her black woolen coat compresses her mousy form. Unnoticed at first, the closer she proceeds to the podium the fainter the sound becomes. She draws vigilant eyes as she prods the projector, flooding the room with the swirl of forest greens and glassy blues. But as time drags on, again the crowded room grows too quiet and even warmer than before. Alas her voice alone is not enough to drown out the presence of the room. Head swimming you start nodding off to the professor’s lullaby, holding your eyes open just long enough to see the streaks of white foam in the crest of the wave as it is about to wash over you. And in that moment you are plunged into sleep.
Mary Saich, ’24