But she wakes up, from her dream. As the elders of our time choose to remain blind.
Blind, because they are supposed to be. All prophets and great people of wisdom are supposed to be blind.
At least that was so in ancient times . . . and songs and literature, but what are blind people supposed to be now? Are they supposed to stem from their blindness, or their blindness from them?
And school is there. And that is where she is. And that is where it is raining and the clouds look like waterlogged wool coats, which have already fallen on the ground and blanketed the earth.
And the Greeks are on the board, in white-board marker, filling the room with the smell of dead brain cells.
But the boards are being replaced with the new frontier, that is visited every once and a while by bored markers. But these markers are stared at through half- lidded eyes by live brain cells.
They all don’t think about dead brain cells. And they think about how stupid this is and how they would rather be asleep and how that is just so interesting!
And her head bobs, and she is still awake.
The spines of the texts that decorate the goaded English teachers’ room stare, with the I’s that decorate their backs.
And twenty years of snow garnish the rough surface of the blank sheet on her computer that reads “Low”. The words flowed out like the dish- soap she would rather be using at home then having her head dipped under the water as it was cleansed.
And it was all framed as she slept.