The heath, that is still there and still soft beneath my feet, soft, and comfortable I suppose, the comfort that comes from familiarity, not from anything real. It's like a comfy chair from which one can achieve nothing - to achieve one needs to get up and do something. It's the chair that waits outside Kafka's door.
Today the hatred burns and I must not let it, but even from that I take a little pleasure today. The need to get out and the realisation that it may not be long before I can do just that. And with the hate there is the love and that helps me to carry on, nay, it compels me to go on - the love for that girl and the pride in her achievement, the joy in her heart when she realised that she could do something that she'd never dreamed possible. That is teaching.
posted by Weasel @ 10:40 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home