Dr. Deadline

It is deadline time, the libraries are full, energy drink shares are through the roof and as you walk around campus, students red-eyed and emanating the essence-du-café stumble and bump into one another like ants blinded by the weight of words after words scrolling across their eyes. The outline of a blank page haunts them at night as the pitter patter of rain becomes fingers on keys, the pace racing as four o'clock approaches. 

'How many words you got?'

'Lets go for a drink once this is all handed in. God I need a drink.'

'Did you hear that so-and-so hasn't even started (thank god I'm not the worst off).' 

It is the night before the assignment is due, 11.55pm, some students will have been finished for days, others may be completing their final check and others will be just starting. Often I will be sitting staring blankly at the computer, my mind questioning how many coffees and energy drinks I've had, wondering whether one more wouldn't hurt before deciding tea is better; jittery fingers don't type as well. 

I am past the blank page syndrome, usually by writing nonsense for half an hour that I will edit out later, it got rid off that terrifying and consuming blankness though. I am past the point of feeling good about the essay knowing that being on the right track is what matters. I've lost and regained my focus, for a moment I doubted I was answering the question but I'm over that; I can always adapt the question to the essay later. I am at the stage of not really caring that much but feigning confidence and wishing I had given myself more time - 'Never again, next time I will give myself loads of extra time and I'll write a perfect essay. I could be getting a first if I put as much effort into this as I put into anything else I do.' 

My thoughts echo across campus, picking up strength as others quote the age-old mantra 'Next time… plan ahead… focus… switch off the internet… how do I spell…' building and building, gaining strength, swirling above the city, the country.

The maelstrom of thoughts chase each other up into the air, reaching the brown brogues of a small figure, the corduroys lead on to a hunched and cardigan adorned torso, a grey beard changes shape as the face of the Professor cracks into a smile, 

'Till next year my pretty's...'