A Visit to Kingwood Oxford - Ester Greenwood

I do not belong in this overly privileged community of clean cut grass, clothes that are both crisp and excessively expensive, and perfectly placed buildings. However, it does remind me of the places in which I used to stay, and I feel slightly more at home. One thing that I embrace are the smiles, but I say this lightly, as they appear on all of the students who are purposely shoving their "happiness" around with these feigned smiles. They are so forced it feels as if they are trying to convince even themselves of their own satisfaction with life. I notice that these privileges make them feel just as empty as I had in New York. A majority of them are trapped in their unhappiness, attempting desperately not to believe in it. They will accept it one day. I have.
Most of the students here act as if they have won the lottery, flaunting their success (that still has yet to be earned) around. I want to step back and breathe, just observing the crowds that pass by; however, I link arms with the girl next to me who has introduced herself to me as Mary when I first arrived. She looks stunning in a pretty blue dress that perfectly frames her body. I pretend not to notice the blouse and skirt that cover my body in such an unflattering way that it seems as if they are trying to protect me from looking pretty. People passing by scrunch up their noses at the stench, but why would I waste time cleaning something when I would just have to do it again later? It's such a waste of time.
As the day moves along, I pay more attention to the confidence in the way each girl carries herself. It appears that everyone thinks they will come out of this school, go to a new college and find riches in their ignorantly bright futures. This will not happen to all of them, as none know shorthand, speak more than one language, or can cook. My mother would be appalled.
I begin to imagine dried blood dripping from the corners of their mouths, each drop representing something they are desperately seeking and hoping to hold onto. The moment in which the last stain of blood has disappeared, they will want to die. I think all of them will hold onto the stains too long, even though they must know that nothing will ever change. The drops will always be dispersed into the earth along with their sanity, and each person will slowly vanish into their own sheaths, whether it is a jar or a hidden away cupboard. These people are nothing but doctored-up dust, and even their jars that have kept them apart for so long cannot prevent the wind from tearing them apart and blowing their last specs of dust away.