The alarm beeps. It beeps. It beeps. Crash. The alarm is now across the room. You roll over, folding your pillow on top of your head. Quiet. Sleep. The alarm beeps. It beeps. It beeps. You groan, throwing your sheets aside and hauling yourself to your feet. In the darkness you stumble toward the offending noise, its insistent blaring even louder now. You trip over something, shrapnel covering your dorm floor—still wet towel, empty cardboard box, bag of chips. The alarm. You reach it and slam on snooze once more. Time to get up, you tell yourself. This is going to be a long week.
Monday. Your class should be at the end of this long hallway, assuming you read the numbers correctly. You resist checking your phone another time. Confidence. You nod your head and continue walking. The walls are a dark green and covered in cork boards. Posters are pinned everywhere—open house, chapel speakers, writing center. You pass by a classroom, loud music playing from some hidden speaker. A student races past you, then another. They have squirt guns. Strange. You look left as you pass through a corridor. There’s a huge printer, a vending machine, and what looks like a comfortable couch. People are already studying there. You make a mental note to check it out later. At the end of the hallway is your class. You were correct. Success! You open the door, walk inside, and grab a desk.
Tuesday. You stride down the long hallway, backpack slung over one shoulder. It looks like more posters have been added since just yesterday. The same room is again blasting music. You wonder what class is inside. The printer whirrs as you walk past the corridor. A group of students study on the couch. You pull out your phone to check the time and swipe through your notifications, slipping it back into your pocket just as you reach your classroom and open the door.
Wednesday. Your body feels heavy as you drag yourself down the long hallway to class. You pass the pin boards covered in posters and turn into the corridor to purchase a granola bar from the vending machine. There was little time to eat this morning. Sustenance acquired, you move by the couch, turn into the hallway, and walk to your classroom.
Thursday. You are going to be late. The long hallway passes your periphery in a blur as you attempt to make up time. Rushing past the corridor you almost collide with another student but narrowly escape in order to slink into your class.
Friday. The long hallway seems to never end, but you muster enough energy to reach your classroom. Almost. There.
The weekend came. The weekend went. You are again sitting at your desk, waiting for class to start. A deep sigh escapes your lips. Your friend walks into the room and sits beside you. They ask you if you want to share the paper. You shrug. Sure, you tell them. How quaint of us. You both laugh and unfold the large sections. You begin reading, scanning the different titles until your eyes catch on a story—fiction, creative, fantastical. The piece is short, written by a peer, something easily overlooked, but the words begin to leap off the page. You see colors dancing in your mind, fragments of inspiration swirling through your subconscious. A smile forms on your face, and your shoulders relax. The story finishes. Your class starts. The change remains though, your subtle shift toward a more positive mentality.
Your week continues. The daily trudge down the long hallway is ever present. That story though, it refuses to leave you alone. It makes you observe, wonder, imagine. You begin to muse about the music. Who is this mystical professor behind the morning melodies. The squirt guns. Those swim through your mind, weaving tales of water wars and soaking wet survivors. You blink and the corridor is now a conclave. Those gathered there are surely discussing some grand plot soon to take place. The final classroom door—that is your portal to a new land, a place where you are held captive for an hour and forced to memorize obscure information. Well, that does depend on the day. This portal can also transport you into fascinating conversations and allow for wonderful discoveries. Your reality has remained unchanged. You are simply looking at it through a different lens now. That story in the paper surprised you. It reminded you of the power in art, the power to inspire. Your alarm may tear you from sleep, but art can bring dreams to life.
