Withdrawal Symptoms and the CME (Part One)

Part One:      I...   C  ME. 

If you happen to visit the Symbiosis Law School library anytime soon, you'd find it has transformed itself into a temporary haven of zombies. 

Zombies in different shapes, sizes, colors and forms. Zombies pouring over books resembling assault weapons and zombies typing away furiously at their laptops.

But you can't miss one when you see it. They're peculiar. They're unmistakable. 

They all wear the same expressions: 

Furrowed brows
And faces screwed up in a scowl.

Yes, we the CME participants.

Except, they don't eat brains. (But you'd be surprised to note, some of them do!) 

Instead, their brains eat away at them. Slowly, and painfully.

You can see them, these harmless zombies, suffering under the weight of their own mind, that rips and tears at their soul, piece by piece, as it grows, heavy with fear, depression and worry. 

Till you find them, eyes empty, staring away in space. A pen hanging limp in their hands. Ruffled hair. Papers scattered. Battered and shaken. Stealing a long luxurious moment away from their reality.

Their reality goes by three simple letters. 

CME. 

The Central Moot Eliminations. What law students live (Are they alive? I poke one to find out. It winces at me. Yes, they're alive.) for. 

They continue staring away in space. And I continue staring at them. Trying to figure them out. Trying to come to terms with the one reality that threatens to consume us all. 

And then I hear myself whisper; 'I withdraw.'

One decision. That's all I have to make. 

One letter. And I can kiss this Zombieland goodbye for good. 

I write it. With firm fingers, I write my withdrawal letter, and I smile triumphantly, after a long, long time.

And then I look back at the rest of the zombies. I pity them now. 

I won't be one of them anymore.

I feel like a war survivor. 

I wonder what stops them from making the decision. They're weak, I reason.

But I look at them more closely.

I don't see broken people. Yes, they are shaken. Shaken by the thought of the war they're preparing for. 

And then it hits me, that I am no war survivor without even participating in one. I am a refugee. 

I look at them more clearly now. Their eyes may be staring away into void. But I don't see void in their eyes. In their eyes, I see determination. I see them, readying themselves. I see a dream. 

And I don't need a mirror to see that the void that I thought they're all staring at, is in my eyes.

And I don't pity them anymore, I pity myself.

Silently I tear off the withdrawal letter,

and join the rest, staring away in space.