Dream of: 14 December 1994 "Becoming Senile"
I was in the eleventh grade at a school which resembled Grant Junior High School. It was almost time to go to class; a girl and I were both working on English papers which we were supposed to hand in at class. I was writing the paper in long-hand; I realized I had started it too late. I asked the girl whether she was writing her paper in long-hand or typing it. I was concerned that a paper written in long-hand wouldn't be as neat – I had already had to scratch out some mistakes. She said she was also writing in long-hand, and that long-hand was acceptable.
As I wrote the paper, I was actually enjoying writing it. Normally I hated writing something like this. But writing this paper was actually becoming enjoyable.
The paper resembled a story; I seemed to be on the second page. However I kept getting confused because I had written on several different pages of a tablet, and I kept losing my place and having to search for it. I was frustrated because I couldn't seem to keep straight which page I was working on.
I was most bothered by the realization that I wouldn't be able to finish the story in time for class the way I wanted to. I finally decided I wasn't going to hand in the paper today; I needed another day. If I handed in the paper the following day I would lose some credit; but I would rather hand in a good paper the following day than an ill-prepared one today.
When it was almost time for class, I stood and walked down the hall. The bell rang and students poured into the hall to change class. As I continued to try to find my way to class, the halls began to empty; everyone else had already gone to their classes. When the bell rang again, it meant that I was already supposed to be in my class.
When I finally came to the room where I thought my class was, I stopped and looked in, expecting an old, gray-haired woman to be teaching the class. Seeing a young woman teaching instead, I realized I was at the wrong room and, confused, I didn't know where to go. Noticing a woman sitting at a high desk in the hall, and concluding that she must be here to provide information, I walked over to her and asked if she could tell me where my English class was. Embarrassed by not being able to remember, I told her I was in the eleventh grade.
I worried that I might be becoming senile. I had noticed that other things were becoming more difficult to remember. I was concerned, but didn't know what else I could do except ask for help from this person.
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