Truth To Power

My English teacher once sat facing the class crying for her life, spouting the detrimental nature of illusions with disillusionment. Each word wore sorrow with a disconcerting sense of clarity. The snake-like sentences crawled from her contemplating mind and seeped into the crevices of our insecurities, deflating us like cheap beach toys. Her eyes, so bluntly bitter, engaged each of our youthful minds, as only a teacher should. We were assured of her intention to rescue us from the cruelty of the false hope that clung to the lives of those who believed in the power of potential. She displayed to us a habit of the world, confusing ignorant influence with inspiration. Desperation often wears of a veil of arrogance. Shock alone shrunk my voice that day; hindsight often offers a delayed reaction.

‘Please do not spoon feed settling to us like a mother camouflaging medicine in food. Mash, mix, blend, smooth; confuse us that way. Do not groom jealousy to look like disgust to strut, oh lest you strut upon any idea that may disturb the reality you have grown to accept. Reality is but a cruel mistress that can bring only harm but time may unknowingly cast it a comfort. Comfort masks the possibility of change. There is a difference between humble and ashamed. You cannot disguise the lies that lie in these eyes.’

Anger stood tall that day in place of anguish, accusations passed around the room as we signed the attendance sheet. We become creations of our conditioning; a classroom is no place to bury your burdens. Despite it all, there was no judgement on our part that day. The opposite occurred as we gained an unwavering respect for the very thing we were warned to forget. Ah, the paradoxical pandemonium of power.