Being a child has many advantages.
All the attention is given to the small and adorable being – me. Whatever need granted thanks to my loud crying. Childhood is not just about me, about them but also about what can be found on the shelves.
For me, everything unknown around me.
Sounds, objects, facts.
I came into this world without a mark.
Emptiness waiting to be filled, something valuable, thanks to which I’ll be able to create something out of nothing. I learned how to control my body. I learned how to be calm when nobody was there.
I learned to talk, I learned how it was to be weak.
Each step, every look taught me something new.
Something I could use in my life.
Something that made me ready to overcome challenges, like a Swiss knife.
As I grew up, the number of steps, number of looks decreased.
The free soul of a free child settled.
The duties of society hid new opportunities.
All of sudden there was nothing to explore, all of sudden there was nothing to observe.
They imprisoned me, my body, my soul in a perfectly explored word, where knowledge has been overcome for ages, like an old wooden bridge. Slow steps of a repetitive path have become a normal event like a Sunday bath.
What was given to me naturally was taken from me.
What gave me power was taken from me.
They took, they killed a part of me, created with the purpose to explore.
They pulled a part of me into a fruit garden, filled with old tastes.
I stopped tasting new fruit.
I stopped listening to the new truth.
I was stuck.
The main reason why I hated school classrooms. They treated me like a dead pond.
Some dead object with limited capacity. The main reason why I began to hate books.
I hated them even when school ended.
Years of sitting in the same place.
Years of walking the one and same path.
Years of listening the same crowd paralyzed me.
Like a pixel file saved in the emptiness, in the cloud.
I felt the huge wave of everything, like the never-ending flow of a waterfall.
All the unknown secrets of the real world should have prepared me for the life out there.
They should have taught me to live life out there.
That didn’t happen.
They just provided a shelter before the opportunities to prepare for the life out there.
They just provided a safe space from learning to live one’s own life.
Instead of boring lectures, past events, totally useless, totally unusable in present life,
they should have shown me inevitable lectures to achieve my impeccability.
How to talk with interest about boring things,
how to find the courage to be different,
how to spend money slowly in this fast world,
how to use the correct words,
how to control my feelings.
I had to find out on my own, I had to teach myself.
I don’t blame them, as I managed to do this without them.
Every time I read, I feel blessed.
It’s like a feast.
The body can lie without movement in a comfortable house in New York, and at the same
time my mind can observe Pablo Picasso at work.
Every page tells a different story.
Dear teachers, don’t anticipate me to say: Sorry.