It’s 9:37 pm; I still have time. I’ll start at 10 pm. I should feel bad for being this unprepared, but I don’t. I’ve always been fine, and today will be no different. Books lay scattered across my desk like fallen soldiers, their pages yawning open, begging for attention. I look at the clock again; 9:48 pm. The steady ticking sound does not faze me. I stretch my arms, and scroll through my phone, mindless rituals for a mind that insists it is invincible.
At 10:02, I open the first book. Its words march in neat lines, but they stumble as I fall apart in their meaning. Still, I highlight, annotate, and flip the pages with relaxed, practised ease. I underline the slippery words, like a surgeon slicing flesh with the wrong instruments. Confidence steadies my hands; I’ve pulled off miracles on less than this.
By 11:42, the highlighter slows, then stops. His presence is subtle at first—a yawn that stretches my jaws wide, a drowsy ache behind my eyes. I’ll switch topics; that should help. But the paragraphs have already begun to blur. Intro to Psychology by Myers dissolves into Rorschach inkblots; Campbell’s Biology mutates into glycolytic pathways I cannot decode.
Midnight creeps in, trailing the heavy breath of Morpheus behind it, whispering sweet things in my ear, telling me to rest, that I’ll think clearer after a pause. I resist, clinging to my pen as though it were a sword. But Morpheus is patient. He circles me like a hunter. He speaks as the myth says: soft, persuasive, offering not demands but gifts of rest, comfort, and relief.
The air around me thickens, his unseen hands guiding my head to the desk. I tell myself I’ll just close my eyes for a minute. Just one. Let the swirling panic in my chest settle. A wave of exhaustion crashes over me; I drift into its pull, unaware. The words on the pages of my books dissolve into a cloud as his lullaby deepens.
The alarm pierces the quiet, jarring me to a world drenched in pale dawn. 6:34 am. The world feels sharp, too bright as if punishing me for yielding to him. My books lie open, silent witnesses to the crime, their pages unmoved by the hours that slipped through my fingers. The clock ticks faster now, each second a drumbeat driving me toward doom.
It’s 6:47 am. I no longer have time. I have to start now, at least. I scramble to read, but the words feel foreign, cryptic glyphs from an alien tongue. My mind is a sieve, unable to hold the weight of what I need. Every ounce of confidence I carried earlier is gone, replaced by the sharp, icy edge of fear. Panic rises, fierce and choking. I snatch at the words and try to force them into my mind, but they scatter like smoke. I fear Morpheus has taken more than just my time.
At 7:02 am, I glance toward the corner of the room, where the shadows linger. I imagine Morpheus watches, his wings tucked, his head tilted in quiet amusement, somewhere, as his work is done. The exam waits, patient as a predator, and I am its prey, trembling in the light of a dawn I didn’t think I’d face unprepared.
And still, the clock ticks.
Mosinmiloluwa
