There were days when school meant handing
you a box of crayons and the word
"create." Those were the days, before
"colour inside the lines." I was always
inking the sky green and the grass
blue, because oh, inverted world, that might be
crazy enough to work.
They say that books are for squares, but
I'd rather be square than circle, rather
not be bubbled into eternal lines, but
if I must I might as well make it a
masterwork. Too bad achievement has
no place for art.
They say that the key to good communication is in
clarity, neat lines and paragraphs, but what good
is the formula, the non-inverted text digitised
onscreen? I'd rather bumble the audience, their minds
spinning whirling rushing twiriling, to show them
how I think.
So clean my ink off the desks, if you
wish. I don't speak your clear jarbled tongues, I don't
talk in circles like erosion, like a steady leaving pang of
nonsense. And to those of you, the dreamers, who dream
as I do:
I hope your skies are painted orange.
Any dream will do.
A/N: By the way, you know who you are, and you're right.