the end of summer

I had to acknowledge it eventually. I’m still reluctant to use the word. But I guess I probably should. School.

It isn’t so much school that I hate, not as much as the way it slithers into my personal life with a wiliness I find despicable. Who gave it the right to follow me past the pale green tiles and rotting blue doors into my home? My mind? My dreams? My existence? Who gave it the right to center all my actions, my thoughts, my commitments around itself? All I can talk about is school. All I can offer as an excuse is school.

I’m absolutely not the only person who feels this way, and all I can ask is why? Why, in response to thousands of students losing sleep and moaning that they hate school, does the administration simply add more to our workload and continue to have us taught in a way that arouses a corrosive hatred inside of us for education? It wasn’t always this way. In fact, it still isn’t. I enjoy education. That’s why I attend a school for math and science. But I don’t enjoy this. I don’t enjoy being taught things I’ll never use and tested on things I was never taught. School takes in bright, motivated, excited students and swiftly strips them of all energy, joy and desire to learn.

I’m so drained, I barely remember how to write. I’ve lost my urge to read, to write, to draw, to dance. I’m always tired. Always. Something needs to change, and fast. And until it does, I’ll continue to drag myself to school in the mornings with a heavy, empty void in the pit of my stomach, wasting away until summer arrives once more.


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