Mutiny

The brain is awake, alert, excited to learn all the new materials being presented by the man in front of the classroom, writing things on the board, but mostly talking and pointing at a brightly lit screen. The body is exhausted and mad at the brain. The ears go first, shutting off, mixing up the sound, spinning it, twirling it into lulling white noise. The eyelids go next, they gain 50 lbs within seconds. The neck gives in last, refusing to hold the head up and lets go.

A squishy hand with golden bracelets reaches out and steals a key on your desk. A baby gorilla staring at you eating mush. A dog wags its tail. A little girl crying. Airplane flying. People. Faces. Trees. Mice. Rush of wind. Pain! The ears turn back on, the eyes open, and the nose hurts. Lazy hands reach up and determine it's not broken nor bleeding. The body straightens up and apologizes to the eager brain and stays awake this time. But just.

A professor teaching "Analysis of Statistics," probably the most boring class he's had to teach yet, sees a student slowly nodding, then her head falls face-first SMACK into the desk. Too bad everyone else is half-asleep, otherwise she'd be quite embarrassed. He keeps talking.