Madhouse.

Madhouse. Never have I seen so many tears and red faces at work. A school sits in shambles, near crumbling, while the teachers hold onto their careers like a weary Pacific fisherman whose boat's being steered by the end of his line into colder, less certain waters. They talk about hard work, but that doesn't exist here. This is the madhouse of bureaucracy, the place of scheduling, jargon, and the checking of checklists. Call it something, just not hard. It's not that the soul should exist here. It shouldn't. It can't. The soul has no interest in spending its time here. The heart's center lives free out there. The window that looks out from my classroom reveals nothing more than a reflection of the one soul, taunting me (us?) to take a (the?) courageous leap into itself, a leap that we must all take, a receipt of our validity to the universe, to the watchers behind the veil, whisperers in the transdimensional darkness, elves out of time, our final products with keen perspective. This school, no matter its mission statement, narrows existential viewpoints and stagnates grand progress. Madhouse.

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