The Temporary Garden Door

I glanced at the date today, and then gazed at the date of my last blog post and I became overwhelmed with shock. I know this blog must have been missed terribly, so I apologise. (I feel like I have apologised a lot on here…)

This post is a secret. A disaster including a minor detour in the world that I encounter is described. The only hint I will deliver is this: I am so physically close to quitting education altogether due to the multiple errors that have been made in my, and many others, education home.

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A world behind a door is either secret or not. It can be revealed, or it cannot. It will be revealed, or it will not. The circumference gets longer and longer around the campus; the string of teachers add up like a child who will never stop growing.

The door was just an accessory for the building. You were not allowed in, but it was there. It was as if a direct route into the building would be unacceptable, but you could go a longer way round to get to your destination. What could have been behind that door?

The growing population of temporary teachers was like an allotment continuing to grow vegetables, despite none being planted. Why was this? The victims of the dramatic development of vegetables were blamed, as if it was their fault for existing. They grew without being told to, but a plant cannot stop it’s production; that is an unreasonable demand.

Behind that door used to be a staircase up to a normal place. Normal chairs, normal tables. Normal people, normal everything. But now all you think is that it was a pretence. After you left, every day, it was turned into a place where all the unwanted mess was stored. And when the trash had so much mass the stitching of the walls started to unravel, the mess flowed down the stairs like a river of destruction, therefore preventing you to make your way up to the place of your normality.

You do not need the mess, but you get given it anyway. After one impression, the mess realises that they are in fact a mess, and resign their post of being Mess of the Year. Little did you know, before the deception was revealed for all the world to view, that there was more than one Mess of the Year, every year. It was a weekly ritual were that weeks’ bag of dirt was the trophy for the quitter dumped on the staircase with the rest of the mess. They all had a trophy, once. Until it disintegrated into nothingness and all that was left was the remembrance of that one hour of trying to be tidy.

Even after the big reveal, you were still not allowed through the door. There was no reason for the door to be shut still, unless the disintegration was so terrible that the staircase had disintegrated too, which would mean that if you went inside you would float down into the piles of quick sand decorating the floor with the skin cells of each and every Mess of the Year winner.

But after some time, the door was replaced. A garden door. A door that you could not see through, like a window to a bathroom. When you stepped inside the room for the first time in months, it looked uncannily the same as it was when you left it. No dirt, no quick sand, no skin cells creeping up your legs trying to turn you into new messes. Nothing. And the staircase was still intact. Nothing was different. And this puzzled you.

It looked temporary. It did not lock, so it could get easily broken in to. It was a useless piece of decor, much like each plant that grew accidentally. These accidental plants are in such a delicate way, that humans tried to allow them to teach, then crash and fail.

Was it really worth it? Recruiting the useless to leave you feeling more unworthy than ever?

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I will allow you to absorb this, and figure out if you understand it. I won’t be offended if you do not; the feelings are very much an inside joke that needs to be externalised.

Thanks for reading!

-ALWright

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