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. They 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. Because I am a master. I am a genius.
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