Four weeks. Four weeks more of an ever constant impending pressure weighing upon our shoulders before freedom. Pure and simple. Nowadays, every single thought is accompanied by mental lists, a monotonous whisper on loop at the back of your mind.

Transport. 2000 words. Due Monday. History. 3 A3. Due Tuesday. Design. Final autocad designs and model. Due Wednesday. Construction. Interim model. Due Thursday.

This ridiculous amount of stress and pressure is stupid really, a malicious cycle which only worsens with time. The sort of stress where you’re completely overwhelmed by the amount of work to do that it incapacitates your very being til you feel like rolling up in a ball and giving up on society. Yet that is exactly the opposite of what needs to be done, and so the stress worsens as the monstrous deadline approaches.

And like I was discussing with a friend, over and over, we whisper next time. Next time we’ll do better, be better, but all for naught as it is a next time that never comes. Tomorrow may be a new day but why does it feel like a simple replay, rerun of the last.

So I eagerly wait for four weeks/10 assignments, two interims/three exams to past for a proper rest and a proper restart, because after all a new start to a semester ought to be more successful, no?

I’ve always been a reader. A bookworm, one of those girls whose perfect morning would be defined by a thick novel and a cup of steaming coffee, whittling away the hours curled up in a comfy armchair. From my earliest recollection, I remember knowing my primary school library inside out, stealing my older brother’s fantasy books to read, and skipping past the meagre collection of teenage fiction to the much larger adult collection. I even remember being scolded by my strict religious catholic primary school for bringing The Da Vinci Code to read to school, not that I cared.

I loved books. Fantasy, romance, slice of life, it did not matter as long as it was well written, spinning a tale as vivid as day, as you hold your breath awaiting the next page. And that’s where the magic lies, from merely stringing a few flimsy words together, a story is woven, the reader’s imagination invoked. It doesn’t magically transport you to another world, nothing can do that. But it does take you away from the day in day out of your mundane life. Taking your mind off the constant whisperings of thoughts, overcrowded and bustling in that small space, jostling for prominence. Giving you quiet as each mental word rolls off the tongue, fabricating a brilliant image of colour.

I’m the sort that literally cannot put the book down, impatient for the story. Give me a good book, and I’ll have it finished in a few days no matter the thickness, a week at most. It’s not very beneficial when you have homework piling up on the side, but then again the homework fades from mind from the first word and it is that from which I seek to escape.

Being sick is a terrifying thing. Unable to think clearly as if a fog had seeped into the nooks and crannies of your brain, leaving all your thoughts hazy and misty. Unable to sleep two nights in a row as the wheeze of each breath is a shriek and subsequent rattle in your ears. Feeling like a fifty year old smoker as each breath you take is only half, for the overwhelming pressure on your chest erupts into a barrage of coughs least you grow greedy. Not only mentally taxing but being physically weak and drained. Going from jogging an entire hour to feeling light headed and out of breath from one flight of stairs… that scares me. Makes you thankful for being born healthy and whole.

Thankfully, I’m on the mend and my lethal mix of fever, cold and cough are fading. Now I no longer have an excuse to lounge around in bed instead of getting through that last minute holiday homework. Sigh.

Sometimes it’s nice to escape to nature. Surrounded in all directions by trees, silent and solitary. Makes you realise how small and insignificant your world really is. Silence reigns as not a spoken word is heard, as the mechanical, blaring white noise of the urban cityscape engrained into your very being fades into a distant memory. But when a breeze from places unknown chances upon you, your silent surroundings explode into a symphony of sounds. The soft chime of millions upon millions of leaves dancing with the new breath of air. The trees themselves swaying from side to side, completely in sync to an age old song that only they could hear. Overhead, the echoing cries of a bird gliding above, a single black speck framed against the lazy white voluptuous clouds.

Time takes on a transient quality, for once in our busy lives the ever present hands shifting with each passing second grow silent, mute against the sounds of Mother Nature. You marvel, you wonder, you ponder til you can no longer delay the beckoning calls. It’s time to return to reality.