I feel
nothing. I will cut it out of me like a
tumor, this thing in the middle of my chest.
All of the empty hallways. Mile
after mile of empty hallway. The boy
continues working on his own. He doesn’t
care if I know. He doesn’t care if
anyone knows. He is a genius.
We are all quietly
sitting in an auditorium. We are waiting
for the presentation—for the balding man to come and turn on the projector and
show us transparencies. He will write on
them in marker, circle the important bits, underline words, draw arrows. We will all sit quietly but make no notes,
because notes are not allowed. We will
just hear it again and again until his lecture is all we know. And it is always the same lecture. The same lecture again and again, with the
same arrows and underlined words. I have
heard it so many times the words mean nothing to me. It is almost as if they are in a foreign
language. They just roll past me like
tumbleweed on the road. I will stare
straight ahead and hear nothing and turn written words into straws that
represent intersecting hallways, each one leading somewhere I am not allowed to
go. If you stare at words hard enough
you don’t see them. You can read words
out loud and not hear them. I can read
the same pages again and again and again and not recognize them if someone read
them to me. I am a master. I am a genius.
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