04/05/2007

Yeah... I shouldn't really be writing flash stories in here. I mean the shrink said I should be writing stupid entries about myself. Easier said than done. How do you write something when you're not really interested? So I guess stories and poems are the only way this diary's going anywhere.

It is bothersome to write my story first in my notebook then copy it off here. I guess I’ll just reduce all that effort. But then again, if I write it straight here, it would mean I’d have to make a lot of corrections and stuff. Notebook it is then, not like I use them for their real purpose anyways.

Anyways, here I am in class this time rather than the comfort of my study table back at home. Yeah... I don't really know why I bother with school. There's no real meaning to education. Schools run nothing but a scam where they pass off training, similar to the kind you can find in a circus, as education.

Write stupid assignments, essays, tests... Nothing but a waste of paper really. If they really wanted to teach something, they should've taught us to write something new. Why are we learning Shakespeare in a classroom when we should live it out there in the open world?

Ideas that once were are nothing but letters, words and sentences hanging atop the sharp knife of cruel judgment and senseless analysis by people calling themselves teachers. Poetry is an art where people hide their true selves. They do so because they want to be heard.

Yes, poets want to be heard. But not by people without imagination. They want those creative and alive enough to enjoy the morning dew sitting peacefully on a leaf of grass. They do not want to be heard by unworthy people complicating simple things and simplifying the complicated. They want to be heard by those capable of telling the difference.

And so, a blue curtain in a poem turns into the mood of the poet according to the teacher while the actual picture outside that window is ignored. I sympathize with the poet who would definitely cry as the beauty of the nature outside he/she tried so hard to portray was simply brushed out of the way.

Is thought really so hard to come by? Are people unable to think these days? I may have become an anomaly in the equation of the world, thinking different and wanting to be known. But alas, I won't ever be. Maybe one day but I'm afraid that day would be when there would be flowers adorning my picture. 

And so I sit here in my class, looking at the hustle and bustle of school life pass me by, sitting in my favorite corner seat. The teacher going on about Shakespeare's "All the World's a Stage" and I can't help but smile at how right he was. Here we are, playing our parts in life, waiting for our exits.

As I sit here mourning the exit of my friend known to the world as "Thought", what interests me more would be the bow that we might have to take after each of our exits. Would that be real or is that just an illusion? Will it ever happen? I wonder...