Nonfiction
class of 2023
Rugged sweaters—gray and blue—chipping logos, stray papers, smudged charcoal clashing with red ink; linoleum floors and fluorescent lights, the strong, sweet smell of stress and expectation and competition, strong in the hallways, but stronger still in classrooms, behind wooden desks and doors blacked out with shades. Sweet like envy, sweet like poison, overwhelming but addicting all the same; it drives the machines in circles, promises of fulfillment leading them up stairwells and into closed-stall bathrooms, parking lots and laboratories.
Hands meant for play molded to thumbing through textbooks, cramped around a mechanical pencil; red-rimmed eyes bloodied by expectation, brains hard-wired to chase grades, not dreams, promised later happiness in exchange for present boredom. Intellectual minds dulled by repetition after repetition, structure after structure—killer of creativity. But in a world where success is measured by conformity, there is no room for individuality.
Every ninety minutes the machines come to life, pouring into the halls, floors paved by those who came before them—generations after generations framed on the second-floor walls, smiling faces, successful products worthy of praise. Soon, they will be just that: a memory, a faint ghost hovering, spirits lingering, tied by the unfulfilling weight of regret.
4 years and it’s not enough but too much all at once, 1,600 souls machines in the pursuit of happiness; forever searching for the right thing in all the wrong places.
Hands meant for play molded to thumbing through textbooks, cramped around a mechanical pencil; red-rimmed eyes bloodied by expectation, brains hard-wired to chase grades, not dreams, promised later happiness in exchange for present boredom. Intellectual minds dulled by repetition after repetition, structure after structure—killer of creativity. But in a world where success is measured by conformity, there is no room for individuality.
Every ninety minutes the machines come to life, pouring into the halls, floors paved by those who came before them—generations after generations framed on the second-floor walls, smiling faces, successful products worthy of praise. Soon, they will be just that: a memory, a faint ghost hovering, spirits lingering, tied by the unfulfilling weight of regret.
4 years and it’s not enough but too much all at once, 1,600 souls machines in the pursuit of happiness; forever searching for the right thing in all the wrong places.