The Diary Of A Tired Teacher.
Red, was the color of my eyes every dawn. I was forever terrified of looking at my flimsy reflection in the dirty glass mirror. I had sleepless nights, spoke raucously through my scary dreams, and quenched my tired limbs with two glasses of whiskey every night. I was too fatigued to respond to those blaring frequent morning greetings from my colleagues who seemed to exist in this world without problems. Those smiles were phony, the greetings were counterfeit and yes many had wrinkles freshly drawn every morning on their faux bright faces. I had to impose a dull smirk and pretend my life was at its peak. I pushed my good wishes up my gut; it felt like swallowing bitter gal. If it wasn’t for that hot cup of coffee that seemed to have been placed in the staffroom first thing in the morning for some reason, I would not need to walk into that stuffy room to respond to their phony hellos. I hated the sound of emails ringing in my pocket. Who woke up this early to just send emails, couldn’t he wait for the morning school bell; get a life! My phone was always on automatic mode, and it connected to the school Wi-Fi instantly it smelt the school gates as if it had made a pact with the system to ruin my crack of dawn. I need to change my career; I need to retire.
Black, the color of my clothes every morning. Oh, they were boring, neither visionary nor inspired. I seemed to mourn my death every morning. What was with this career that forced me to grieve every dawn? I hated my sunrises. I felt demotivated, my strength oozed with every passing second and my bed seemed to be no place to offer solace for me. I had to take something strong to seduce sleep. It had become so rare like the German smile. Wherever my hand groped all I would get is a black shirt, a dreary coat, dull socks, and murky shoes. Did I buy all these black costumes? What performance was this that was this tragical? Who wrote this script whose scenes never changed? Did the protagonists survive in this plot? I need to change my career; I need to retire.
White, the color of my hair. It used to be black, and every month a white string of hair would sprout like a fervent farmer profusely had put on it Russian fertilizer. What kind of thoughts made me ancient like this? Did it have to show off to the world its magical color? It's like the wrinkles and the color of my hair had organized a meeting and decided to embarrass me to the entire globe. The world of a teacher. I need to change my career; I need to retire.