During peak hours, the elevator is like a relentless dance, constantly going up and down, carrying an endless stream of people. But instead of a gentle rhythm, its movements are heavy and repetitive, like the monotonous beat of a song lacking any highs or lows. Each wait feels interminable as people jostle and hurry, their impatience palpable.

Amidst the crowd, I feel like a part of a living sculpture, where furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, and suffocating silence blend together. The weary faces and lost gazes of students yearning to escape this metal box create a paradoxical masterpiece, where confinement ironically mirrors a profound desire for freedom.

As part of the building, the elevator is designed for convenience. But unfortunately, it often brings a sense of suffocation rather than comfort. In its design, perhaps the intention was for it to become a symbol of modernization, speed, and the connection between floors. However, it has become a cage that imprisons people in moments of restlessness.

During peak hours, the scene inside the elevator resembles a moving painting with contrasting colors, as layers of student uniforms stack up against the cold metal backdrop. There is no peace, no poetry—only haste and suffocation, as if everyone is caught in an endless cycle that no one wants to stop. For me, the school elevator has become a symbol of confinement, a heavy and exhausting loop that no one can break free from.

On those days when the elevator unexpectedly undergoes maintenance, the feeling of dependence becomes even clearer. If I once hated the cramped space, now, when every exit is temporarily halted, I realize I can do nothing but wait. The maintenance sign goes up, and the flow of people is halted midway, like a painting suddenly interrupted, losing the emotional and daily rhythm of the students. That inconvenience forces us to look for alternative paths, pushing us to step outside of our routines, albeit unwillingly.

What frustrates me the most is not the waiting time or the number of people crowded in, but the feeling of being trapped in this small space. Every time I step in, it feels like being sucked into an isolated world where everything seems to stop. There is no connection, no shared gaze—only cold phone screens and eyes fixated on the door. In such a cramped space, it’s easy to feel suffocated and helpless, as though we’re just waiting like machines to get out of that circle.

If the elevator could be likened to a repetitive song, it would be a sad song, lacking creativity, with no highlights or novelty. It moves steadily, based on fixed programming, never changing. Every day, it repeats itself, transporting students in the same way as a computer simply following pre-existing programs, devoid of emotion or variation.

In the end, what I dislike about the school elevator isn’t just the daily inconveniences, but the sense that it takes away my freedom, that it limits me. The elevator becomes a symbol of separation, of invisible obstacles I want to overcome, but cannot fully escape from. So, when standing in the crowd, waiting, I find myself hating the elevator a little more—not just for when it stops or undergoes maintenance, but for the very feeling of being trapped that it evokes in me.

But, is the elevator really so detestable? Or are these emotions merely a reflection of the fatigue and stress of daily life? Upon further thought, I wonder if I’m exaggerating my frustration over small details. The elevator, after all, is just a tool, an intermediary that connects people with different floors of space. So why has it become the place where my negative emotions reside?

Perhaps what I dislike isn’t the elevator, but the rush and pressure that student life brings. The peak hours, the race against time, the piles of assignments, and responsibilities make every moment of waiting feel much heavier. The elevator can’t decide whether it’s crowded or spacious; it simply does its job—moving people from one floor to another. It is we, with our hurried steps and stressed minds, who turn the experience into more of a challenge than a convenience.

And if I look at it differently, perhaps the elevator also reflects another aspect of life. In that confined space, we are forced to stand close to one another, even if we don’t know each other, even if we don’t speak. It creates a temporary moment of connection, where we—people who usually rush past each other in the vast campus—get a chance to be closer, even if only for a few seconds. Every time the elevator stops at each floor, I realize there’s patience, sometimes even a little empathy, when each person understands that we are all in a hurry, we are all tired.

Seen in this way, the elevator is not just a mindless tool, but an essential part of the school environment. It helps people connect, not only in space but in experience. The hasty trips, the moments of waiting, sometimes reveal the small things—like the smiles exchanged between students walking together on the same journey, even if just for a brief moment.

So, perhaps it’s not the elevator that is detestable, but the way I’ve perceived it too one-dimensionally, allowing the small stresses of everyday life to overshadow understanding and empathy. The elevator, though it sometimes tires me and frustrates me, is also a part of the learning and growing process. It’s like other challenges in life—unavoidable, but always carrying a lesson, if I take the time to reflect.

Perhaps, from now on, I won’t hate my school elevator anymore. Instead, I’ll accept it as a part of the journey, a symbol of movement, never-ending—just like our own lives.