75 Vhalar, 723
.
A young man dressed in all black made his way up the stairs to the front doors of the university. He had gathered enough equity to provide financial excellence for the acquisition of a diploma in science. As someone who had been self-appointed a venerated being, Kotton’s capacity for knowledge was as boundless as it was its inability to be placated. If a brain kept growing based on the factual information he sought to retain, his head would be as big as a house. And he would still be unsatisfied.
He wanted more, always desiring supplement, always seeking for auxiliary mental stimulation. Learning was way to not only distract himself from unpleasant thoughts but to create a heightened world of enlightenment to flourish in. His life was boring, tedious, the same old merging there with the same old here; it was the scene in a story that wouldn't change. The taste he had for exploration had him drooling each and every day, a weakness, if he had to admit, and one that would have him falling prey to anyone's ability to provide intellect.
He had taken a course at the university- a class on writing. He had earned his certificate, had placed it on the icebox in his kitchen and verbally published its existence to all his friends and coworkers, even his father. But the high lasted for a limited of time. Now his thirst had returned, unquenchable by any normal means. Education at a higher level was the only thing that could staunch the bleeding of his heart. It was the only thing that could quell the pain that begun to seep back into his soul. He lacked knowledge and lusted for more. And there was always more. There had to be. For when there was nothing left, Kotton would cease to exist. If there was nothing else to learn, there was nothing left to live for.
The university was the only solution to his problem. Science, as it was, had propelled itself underneath the illuminating glare of a flickering fire, demanding attention. And Kotton listened to its call. At the gate he stood, separated from another realm of perspective by a heavy door. He hesitated- why was he hesitating? Just open them, he urged.
He did.
The welcome he felt once inside elicited nothing less than a pleasant memory. The soft murmurings of passing students (though he couldn't know this- only interpret by the movements of tongue against lips), the strong scent of papyrus lingering in the air. The architecture of the walls and the mouldings above the flooring were just as they always had been, meticulously crafted by someone with the need for perfection held fastened against their heart. The doors to each classroom were thick and bold. The type of wood used, still unknown to him, gave tethers to a nomadic nature Kotton didn’t know he had. As he watched several people pass him by, he noticed the determination and urgency for the arrival to their destination. No inkling of tentativeness could be construed from the language of their bodies. There was only motivation and perseverance and those were values Kotton could appreciate.
He, too, had a destination to reach; a science room in the northmost corridor of the university. He was thankful to not have to take any stairs, for it was located on the ground floor, but the air was depleted from his lungs at any rate once he had found his class. He quickly found a place to sit, a cushioned seat in the dead centre of the room. He was nestled between two other students- a female with blond hair and uncanny rosy coloured cheeks, and a male with studs in his nose and spiky raven hair. Kotton tried not to stare. His purpose for being here was to learn not eye his peers.
Within seconds of his arrival, a middle aged man donning a thick moustache and adorable blue bowtie emerged from an alcove at the back of the room. He relocated himself behind the pedestal at the front and declared himself as professor Misrissour. Kotton would have a hard time remembering this name.
The reaction time of the rest of the class was phenomenal, instantaneously after his introduction, every individual moved to grasp their writing utensils with vigor and stare intently toward their main source of information, the professor. This was no introductory course. Kotton had overestimated his ability to understand science, relying heavily on his masterful aptitude for psychology and innate ability to catch onto things in short order. He wanted a rigorous schedule, something that took half the time to learn. He was that bent on filling his mind with things other than the normal atrocities.
Professor Misrissour's moustache wiggled with excitement as he opened his proverbial book to the first chapter of his scientific lesson.
“You all know the scientific method-” Gratefully, Kotton did. “And you all know how to formulate a hypothesis.” Again, Kotton was thankful for understanding this elementary function. “Now, I want you all to illustrate a unique experiment using the foundational knowledge you have accumulated.”
Kotton’s stress receptors ignited in a rage. He had to double take at the words that crossed his instructor’s lips. It was just his anxiety- he knew what was being asked of him- so why were his nerves so shot? He fought against the panic, frustrated that nervousness was his first reaction to a new question. He knew what he was doing. He was prepared for this.
He scrutinised the empty page on his desk and penciled the appropriate letters that reflected the sensical configuration of his thought process. A hypothesis was an ‘if, then’ statement. He had recently performed an experiment at his place involving solvents and solutions. He replicated that experiment, making sure all the important bits were knocked off the phantasmal rubric that drifted into his subconscious.
“Pencils down,” the professor announced. Kotton would have missed this instruction had he not been searching the room for additional answers. Had the time given to finish this task lasted for only a short spell or was it just him? If this was any indication to the difficulty of the class, he would have to step up his game.
Out of the corner of his eye, he immediately found a mistake. Two. Maybe more if he had been given a longer duration to examine his work. However, the professor was already strolling through the rows of seats, plucking papers from peers' desks.
Kotton bit his lip but remained as cool as physically possible, at least on the outside. His doubts were a flurry inside his head. Was this the right class for him? He was a quick learner, an intelligent lad, and he nurtured a fervour for the scientific arts. Even if he struggled, he was determined to succeed. He wanted to believe this was the right course for him and he resigned himself to stand by this belief until its end.
Mr. Misrissour had finished his collection and returned to his spot at his perch behind his pedestal. “Life is matter. Matter is any physical substance occupying space and possessing mass. And what is space? Dimensions in which all things exist and move. What is mass? Mass is an intrinsic property of an object in relation to space. Mass is not the same thing as weight. We all know what weight is. Mass is more complicated. As we transgress through our first module in this class, you will become acquainted with its true definition.”
Cramps. In his hands. In his knuckles. The soft muscle between his thumb and wrist. His wrist too, actually. It all smarted from the frantic pace of Kotton’s note taking. He recorded everything, every flick of the tongue and circular formation of the mouth so he could oversee a self-appointed inquest in the near future when his nose was buried in his journal, his head pounding from the perplexity of a concept so foreign to him. His ultimate goal was to become acquainted, as his professor had said, with the teachings before he was expected to. He needed to excel, not just deliver.
A short break- the stretching of his wrist in odd directions and the hopes of relieving some pain. He glanced up to find Mr. Misrissour speaking again, only this time his lips were moving with impeccable speed. There was no doubt the young man had lost some important facts in translation.
“Your first assignment is to make an argument that relates gravity to mass. And what is gravity?”
Silence. Well, at least to the ears of a deaf man. Kotton strained his eyes, pleading with his professor to repeat the words that had been (assumedly) announced in conjunction from the students that filled the seats around him. Luck was on his side, for his wish was granted.
“That is correct. Gravity is the force that attracts an object toward the centre of the earth. Or anything else that has ma-” Mr. Misrissour stopped abruptly. An honest mistake, but a slip-up Kotton celebrated. He added this to his notes.
“I guess I got a little ahead of myself there,” the instructor chuckled. “Anyway, until next time!” He waved with a smile, sending his students on their way to their next class. Kotton was glad he didn’t have a ‘next class’. He needed to rush home and pour over his notes so that he could better grasp these new words and corresponding definitions. But first, he recognised his need for help, especially if he was to even think about succeeding in this course. He approached his professor.
“I’m bad at heawing,” he admitted, gesturing to his ears using the universal tell that he was deaf.
His professor placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“That’s totally fine. I’ll do whatever I can to ensure you prosper in this course.”
There was an exchange of smiles before Kotton packed up his things, swept his brunette bangs behind his ear, and treaded home, his head lost in a cloud of daydreams.
He wanted more, always desiring supplement, always seeking for auxiliary mental stimulation. Learning was way to not only distract himself from unpleasant thoughts but to create a heightened world of enlightenment to flourish in. His life was boring, tedious, the same old merging there with the same old here; it was the scene in a story that wouldn't change. The taste he had for exploration had him drooling each and every day, a weakness, if he had to admit, and one that would have him falling prey to anyone's ability to provide intellect.
He had taken a course at the university- a class on writing. He had earned his certificate, had placed it on the icebox in his kitchen and verbally published its existence to all his friends and coworkers, even his father. But the high lasted for a limited of time. Now his thirst had returned, unquenchable by any normal means. Education at a higher level was the only thing that could staunch the bleeding of his heart. It was the only thing that could quell the pain that begun to seep back into his soul. He lacked knowledge and lusted for more. And there was always more. There had to be. For when there was nothing left, Kotton would cease to exist. If there was nothing else to learn, there was nothing left to live for.
The university was the only solution to his problem. Science, as it was, had propelled itself underneath the illuminating glare of a flickering fire, demanding attention. And Kotton listened to its call. At the gate he stood, separated from another realm of perspective by a heavy door. He hesitated- why was he hesitating? Just open them, he urged.
He did.
The welcome he felt once inside elicited nothing less than a pleasant memory. The soft murmurings of passing students (though he couldn't know this- only interpret by the movements of tongue against lips), the strong scent of papyrus lingering in the air. The architecture of the walls and the mouldings above the flooring were just as they always had been, meticulously crafted by someone with the need for perfection held fastened against their heart. The doors to each classroom were thick and bold. The type of wood used, still unknown to him, gave tethers to a nomadic nature Kotton didn’t know he had. As he watched several people pass him by, he noticed the determination and urgency for the arrival to their destination. No inkling of tentativeness could be construed from the language of their bodies. There was only motivation and perseverance and those were values Kotton could appreciate.
He, too, had a destination to reach; a science room in the northmost corridor of the university. He was thankful to not have to take any stairs, for it was located on the ground floor, but the air was depleted from his lungs at any rate once he had found his class. He quickly found a place to sit, a cushioned seat in the dead centre of the room. He was nestled between two other students- a female with blond hair and uncanny rosy coloured cheeks, and a male with studs in his nose and spiky raven hair. Kotton tried not to stare. His purpose for being here was to learn not eye his peers.
Within seconds of his arrival, a middle aged man donning a thick moustache and adorable blue bowtie emerged from an alcove at the back of the room. He relocated himself behind the pedestal at the front and declared himself as professor Misrissour. Kotton would have a hard time remembering this name.
The reaction time of the rest of the class was phenomenal, instantaneously after his introduction, every individual moved to grasp their writing utensils with vigor and stare intently toward their main source of information, the professor. This was no introductory course. Kotton had overestimated his ability to understand science, relying heavily on his masterful aptitude for psychology and innate ability to catch onto things in short order. He wanted a rigorous schedule, something that took half the time to learn. He was that bent on filling his mind with things other than the normal atrocities.
Professor Misrissour's moustache wiggled with excitement as he opened his proverbial book to the first chapter of his scientific lesson.
“You all know the scientific method-” Gratefully, Kotton did. “And you all know how to formulate a hypothesis.” Again, Kotton was thankful for understanding this elementary function. “Now, I want you all to illustrate a unique experiment using the foundational knowledge you have accumulated.”
Kotton’s stress receptors ignited in a rage. He had to double take at the words that crossed his instructor’s lips. It was just his anxiety- he knew what was being asked of him- so why were his nerves so shot? He fought against the panic, frustrated that nervousness was his first reaction to a new question. He knew what he was doing. He was prepared for this.
He scrutinised the empty page on his desk and penciled the appropriate letters that reflected the sensical configuration of his thought process. A hypothesis was an ‘if, then’ statement. He had recently performed an experiment at his place involving solvents and solutions. He replicated that experiment, making sure all the important bits were knocked off the phantasmal rubric that drifted into his subconscious.
“Pencils down,” the professor announced. Kotton would have missed this instruction had he not been searching the room for additional answers. Had the time given to finish this task lasted for only a short spell or was it just him? If this was any indication to the difficulty of the class, he would have to step up his game.
Out of the corner of his eye, he immediately found a mistake. Two. Maybe more if he had been given a longer duration to examine his work. However, the professor was already strolling through the rows of seats, plucking papers from peers' desks.
Kotton bit his lip but remained as cool as physically possible, at least on the outside. His doubts were a flurry inside his head. Was this the right class for him? He was a quick learner, an intelligent lad, and he nurtured a fervour for the scientific arts. Even if he struggled, he was determined to succeed. He wanted to believe this was the right course for him and he resigned himself to stand by this belief until its end.
Mr. Misrissour had finished his collection and returned to his spot at his perch behind his pedestal. “Life is matter. Matter is any physical substance occupying space and possessing mass. And what is space? Dimensions in which all things exist and move. What is mass? Mass is an intrinsic property of an object in relation to space. Mass is not the same thing as weight. We all know what weight is. Mass is more complicated. As we transgress through our first module in this class, you will become acquainted with its true definition.”
Cramps. In his hands. In his knuckles. The soft muscle between his thumb and wrist. His wrist too, actually. It all smarted from the frantic pace of Kotton’s note taking. He recorded everything, every flick of the tongue and circular formation of the mouth so he could oversee a self-appointed inquest in the near future when his nose was buried in his journal, his head pounding from the perplexity of a concept so foreign to him. His ultimate goal was to become acquainted, as his professor had said, with the teachings before he was expected to. He needed to excel, not just deliver.
A short break- the stretching of his wrist in odd directions and the hopes of relieving some pain. He glanced up to find Mr. Misrissour speaking again, only this time his lips were moving with impeccable speed. There was no doubt the young man had lost some important facts in translation.
“Your first assignment is to make an argument that relates gravity to mass. And what is gravity?”
Silence. Well, at least to the ears of a deaf man. Kotton strained his eyes, pleading with his professor to repeat the words that had been (assumedly) announced in conjunction from the students that filled the seats around him. Luck was on his side, for his wish was granted.
“That is correct. Gravity is the force that attracts an object toward the centre of the earth. Or anything else that has ma-” Mr. Misrissour stopped abruptly. An honest mistake, but a slip-up Kotton celebrated. He added this to his notes.
“I guess I got a little ahead of myself there,” the instructor chuckled. “Anyway, until next time!” He waved with a smile, sending his students on their way to their next class. Kotton was glad he didn’t have a ‘next class’. He needed to rush home and pour over his notes so that he could better grasp these new words and corresponding definitions. But first, he recognised his need for help, especially if he was to even think about succeeding in this course. He approached his professor.
“I’m bad at heawing,” he admitted, gesturing to his ears using the universal tell that he was deaf.
His professor placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“That’s totally fine. I’ll do whatever I can to ensure you prosper in this course.”
There was an exchange of smiles before Kotton packed up his things, swept his brunette bangs behind his ear, and treaded home, his head lost in a cloud of daydreams.
