The story of my maths teacher.

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Did you know that the last time a maths teachers entered the same classroom as me, I was wondering if I would have to see his face again, not because I loved him, but because I hated* him. It was just that I wasn’t quite sure if I would pass and wouldn’t have to sit with my juniors.

Note*Footnote: HATE is a very strong word.

At this point of time, I would imagine myself sitting somewhere at the very back of the class with Sullivan. I would elaborately dream of a life where I would be sulking in depression, gulping down my daily dose of tablets. Though I imagine I would still meet Sullivan. By the way you didn’t Sullivan was a bully. He also lived right next to our house, and while I remember that his mother made amazing chocolate puffs, I knew that she wouldn’t allow a failure to enter her house. In case you didn’t notice, Sullivan was good at studies.

And thus I should blame his father who was an army man, or so I heard. Army men are tough idealistic men, with shiny oiled muscles. That is exactly what I pictured when I saw Sullivan in a dream about his future, sadly, I was still alive.

Forgive me that I do not remember my other bully’s name, that one maths teacher that I thought I would never overcome. Ironically enough I did, which is why I didn’t picture a future for him. Because he knew that until he would retire, or die, or retire he would continue walking in the same class again and again with the same maths book published at least 5 years past the present. Well a lot of us, the nerds, thought that he had a horrible command over English, however, changing the past into present was not his weakness.

I also remember the days when my nerd gang wasn’t present at school, how you ask, well my gang was technically 2 people and one of them was me, of course. And while the classes went forward in the same awkward silence, the lunch-breaks were the worst. I sat alone and sometimes stood up went to some other ‘friends’. Was mocked. Came back. Sat down again.

Humans are entitled to love, and entitled to wealth and to everything that is good in this world, which is why I never quite succumb if I was indeed a human, my mother said I was. And my father asked me how absurd of a question of that. Usually when children don’t have an answer they keep mum, but since I have already proved that I am not human, I didn’t stop, well until I was forced to keep mum.

And so fables and fables were written in those beautiful notebooks that I still remember exact locations of but not one did ever come true. Oh, to hell with that. I didn’t care.

Note, *Footnote,
“Of course it is happening in your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real”.

My parents attributed my imagination as fantasy, while my therapist calls it disillusions. I fail to see a difference.

I remember that a friend of mine used to tell these amazing stories, and I remember that I wanted to be like him. I tried, I failed, so I started writing. Now I speak too, and write yes, oh that shit never stopped.

And since I still continue to write gibberish and shake a little when on the stage, FABLES KEEP ME ALIVE.

 

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