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Notes From A Desk That Isn't Mine

Originally Posted: 2017


Subbing for another teacher is a forced study hall for yourself.


There is a certain calmness in the chorus of clicking on keyboards as the girls work to write their paragraphs on… something historical I don’t know the context of.


I should be using this quiet time to find my own productivity. My to-do list is inked on, scratched out, written over in another color, stained by the coffee I let get cold, and somehow expanding in pages.


But I find my mind is Monday Morning Muddled (TM).


I am scrolling. Mindlessly scrolling, looking for a funny meme or thoughtful words. Looking for…


I had a dream last night. For months now, I have a had a dream last night. I have dreamt in such extremity that I often can’t recall if conversations took place in my life or in my bed, in my mouth or in my head. I have thought to write them down, I remember them so vividly when I wake… but then, I think again. Maybe it's best to let them fade away. Let the moon take them as she changes; swallow them whole and spit them up into little stars that I can only see if I am squinting.


Perhaps it is this dreaming that is making me this tired. I am so busy in my sleeping hours that all throughout the day my body aches for rest and mindless matters.


Like this video of cats that has popped up on my feed.


I am a foggy-visioned sort of tired. A disco-zombie. My head is full of clouds and my body is heavy in the air, warm and languid.


BUT.


My feet are deep inside the ground. Buried in sweet mud and dappled with grass stains.

I am good here. An elemental constellation.


I really need more coffee.


I don’t stand for the pledge at morning meeting.


I am angry at our country.


That escalated quickly… no. That is always on my mind.


It baffles me that there are human beings, made of flesh and blood and bone, that can continue to be complacent in the dismantling of other flesh and blood and bone with more bullets. So hungry for the artificial green that they are colorblind to the stains of our natural red. How do they sleep at night, caked in so much death? Do they dream of lost voices? Do they weep? Do they feel anything at all but greed?


Fury. I am filled with fury.


And also.


An ever-deepening sense of love for the people I call mine.


In a world where people play with guns like tinker toys and toy with life like trinkets in the sand, I will hold tighter to your hands.


Dreamers, I will tell you that I love you, that I need you; that I am grateful for every breath you take. I will show you.


There is never enough time, so I will drink the time we have like the last sweet drop of wine. Devour it with a hunger so keen it is necessity.


I will chronicle her scent, and his laugh, and your sweetness, and our midnight conversations. A garden of riches, a story to tell. His tight hold, and her bright shimmer, and your sharp tongue, and our blue-infused adventures. A sun that melts into my skin. A bear, my heart and the key to my body.


All of you, my people, are all of me.


I am reminded every day, it seems, of how short life is. I will give my ghost beautiful things to remember.


Class dismissed. Another cup of coffee.

© 2020 by Rachel Schulte. Proudly created with Wix.com

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