A new school year. A new term. Three weeks old. Summer a distant dream. A dream time when I was a real person. A human being. A time when time itself stretched out endlessly in front of me. No need to rush. No need to do anything at all. Gone. No more.
I'm sitting in my workshop with my colleague surveying the scene of destruction after the week. Woodshavings everywhere, paper strewn around, mangled pencils and dust covering everything. We sit staring into space trying to make sense of it all. Ruined. Chewed up and spat out.
This weekly moment, I realise, is like surviving a tsunami. Your home is destroyed and your family washed to sea and you are left sitting on the beach in the rubble and debris.
Two days to recover it all before it starts again.
I'm sitting in my workshop with my colleague surveying the scene of destruction after the week. Woodshavings everywhere, paper strewn around, mangled pencils and dust covering everything. We sit staring into space trying to make sense of it all. Ruined. Chewed up and spat out.
This weekly moment, I realise, is like surviving a tsunami. Your home is destroyed and your family washed to sea and you are left sitting on the beach in the rubble and debris.
Two days to recover it all before it starts again.
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1 comment:
This, THIS, is the single most accurate description of a teacher's Friday afternoon that I've ever seen.
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