#pseudowriter

Yes, it’s funny, but it’s really happening, not only in schools, universities, but also in jobs.

Dear Professor X: Yes, we are at home, yes, we don’t have to transport ourselves to get to the university, yes, it is unlikely that we will forget our homework, but that means that we have more time? NO. Many of us -because of course there are always exceptions- have NEW things to do, apart from what is necessary to balance our lives like personal care, time with family or friends, housework (lots of cleaning), taking care of our pet, physical exercise and even cooking. Some, they stay there, but about NEW tasks, the pandemic has left many parents out of work, people who were the breadwinners of the family, that means that several for those or other reasons also work; then there are people who live with older adults or people at risk and try to protect them by doing tasks they used to do outside home, so now they do the house shopping, payments, errands and much more.

It is not that we are lazy, or we hate homework, we are aware that it is part of, practice makes perfect, I understand that; but you know I don’t understand, that they leave last minute jobs without meaning, that in spite of presenting justifications with evidence they don’t choose to help the student and give second chances, the excessive and unnecessary accumulation of jobs without meaning, the lack of empathy, the little closeness with the student, easy jobs can be difficult for others.

I know that there are different educational systems, which realize when a student has problems and differentiate complicated jobs for some, they do not have a problem with taking exams 2 or 3 times if some need more time or with extra teaching or help, because that means that the student does want to learn. I think that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

The melody of the music caresses my ears,

As I look through the window patchy with rainy tears,

Its dusty silhouette shows the deep, harsh realities of life,

But, as I change my focus,

I see trees in the periphery, ever so green and luscious,

As the rays make their way through the canopy of leaves,

A little shake will release millions of memories that one desires to relive,

The same silhouettes of teary rains reincarnated the tree of life,

Isn’t life funny?

A little perspective can turn anything from a dreadful night to a blissful morning,

Typewriter

As I cleaned my closet, a small brown bundle tied with a chord fell on the ground. It was a bunch of old letters, tattered envelopes and dirty stamps with the date 1940 on them. While I picked them up, I saw the year rewind in front of my eyes like an old recorded movie. When I last saw those deep green eyes, dark brown hair with tiny curls and tiny freckles that caressed his cheeks and nose. The night before he left, we stayed up and saw the stars by the bay, counting the nights we will be spending away from each other. We smiled at each other, but it didn't reach our eyes. The tear threatens to spill and reveal the secrets of our affection. No words were said, just the brown of my eyes, drowning in his green. A spell surrounded us, a bubble created of imagining the life when he will be back. Eyes talked that night and, maybe that is why I feel empty without those green world around me.

I stare at that bundle, and my feet take me to my study, the place where I met him even when he was miles away from me. I took out my old friend, the dusty sheets and jammed keys of my grandfather's typewriter. I sat at night, reading and entering his world and introduced him to my life without him, where I waited every day to get that letter, hoping every night before I fell asleep that he will respond and he will come back stronger. The horrors of war seeped through the words he weaved, and I wrote as tears stained the page, asking him to come back every single day.

For a year, the typewriter knew our secret and, he was loyal enough never to reveal our little adventure. This inanimate object became my best friend, who treated my anxious mind, helped me formulate words and send my love to mi amor miles away.

But alas, who knew that on the day of our anniversary when I went down there personally deliver my letter, and meet those green eyes, that I will come to know my question- 'I miss you, when will you come back?' will be answered in the most brutal way possible. He died reading my last letter, and I got married a month later after I lost my soul in the army camp of a boy with green eyes and brown hair.

The Starry Night whispers, do you hear?

The hues of dark and blue,

The bright tint of faraway balls of heaven,

The human soul desires to drown in the ecstasy of its life,

With the cosmic colours surrounding my abode of green and blue,

The lethal charm of stars, the dancing shadows,

The flower of passion and devotion,

The euphoria of the burning desire,

The human soul yearns to cleanse the mind,

Filled with words of life to real to survive,

The numbing sounds and unwanted attractions,

Just an existence of serenity,

dirty feet have travelled to distant places,

they whisper the essence of life,

as harsh and rocky each step is,

Its serene and sedate air fills up your life,

the calmness that engulfs you with the dews and fragrance of the fresh leaves,

the glorifying sun with its thin streaks,

the travelled road witnessing millions of journeys,

each with a peal of unique laughter and story,

is it the poise of the place that calms the mind or the moment that captivates the heart,

the moment where you exist without the judgement, pretence and hate,

without the crumbling thoughts or the forceful stay,

but the solitude where the mind figures its way to the soul,

where you figure out yourself,

because in the end, your dirty shoes will be your only mate,

Life is a blur,

Entering the grounds of bliss and fear,

With unrequited loves and complicated relationships,

To the long lost child of a single mother,

The harsh realities of life covered with the facade of denial,

The dimple cheeky smile of a lover,

Through the millions of forgotten and frequently remembered tales of life,

Sapient wishes to fix the blur,

The blur of life,

Like the city lights,

That disguises itself as a shadow with the speed of life,

The life of a sapient, with millions to do but nothing for them,