To the teachers, assassins of my creativity- I was never what you wanted, I was not one to conform to the rules and boundaries of the square in which you imprison yourselves. I was no ordinary child, I am what is known as an indigo child, but thanks to your continued oppression of my soul, I find myself as colourless as you.
-This is no game, of words that cut again and again -
Now all I have is myself, the only canvas to paint who I truly am, what I really see, what I really feel.
School, safe harbour of the mind, nurturer of the untapped potential, ha! I arrived eager, brimming with excitement of this safe house, but it was not what I thought to discover. They say school years are the best years of your life, where you are encouraged to be the best you can be, but this is far from who you want to be.
Though I was merely young, year one to be accurate, the boulder had already been firmly placed upon me to work within the lines...
"That's not how you colour a flower! Flowers are green with only one colour. Look at yours...purple stem? ...More than one colour for petals? This is not correct".
--Inside my veins these feelings riot--
Though primary years were not what I expected, I felt sure that senior years would only get better, that the best was yet to come.
English! Art! Drama! The fields seemed endless with promise. Where I could express what lay within me, what I had lain repressed for so long. I thought that this was the opened window, the place where I could spread my wings, dance to my own tune, to become who I was within these boundless subjects.
Of course...