This was an idea that my friend Nikos came up with. I wrote it about a year ago and I still find it to be one of the more existential and unique pieces that I have written. I’ve never been someone who loved school or the education system. I’d even say that I hate it. These are the kinds of thoughts I’ve had since way back in grade school and lasted all the way to college.
The room is desolate. At night, all I see are desks, chairs and cleaning supplies. During the day, I see the same desks and chairs but inhabited by children.
They are so full of energy. The way that they talk. The way that they act. The way that they think. It’s marvelous.
Energy high, the teacher talks to the children, guiding them through their educational journey. They pick up a piece of used chalk and write on my surface. I can feel their emotions flowing as smoothly as the newly drawn line; their true feelings revealed.
Tired and worn as they watch the students go through the same tedious process that they had gone through years earlier. They wish the best for the students but hopes lay low. When they’re young, they are carefree. They have fun. They don’t realize what problems await them.
What’s worse is that they are always so unprepared. I watch these youths and how they talk, act and think. They’re creative. They do exactly what they want to do to have fun. They make the best of everything that they do.
The teacher looks at the kids and wishes that they could still think like they do. Unable to see what’s coming. Unable to feel the pain of the real world.
When a child brings chalk to my surface, it’s the highlight of my day. They are given the freedom to draw whatever is in their young minds. It’s always fun to see and feel their disregard for other opinions. How they share their work with their classmates.
Then, just like the cruel nature of life, an eraser is brought to it, removing it from the world. Taking it from their mind and never giving it back. They are trained from a young age that their thoughts are forgettable. That their creativity isn’t special. That they are just like everyone else.
Seeing how a child grows to become a teacher that wishes that they thought like a child is miserable. It’s a vicious, unforgiving cycle that makes the sanest person wonder how it’s accepted. But what can I do about it? I’m where creativity lies dormant until the end of my existence.