Sunday, October 3, 2010

Something I wrote for school

The School Psychologist Didn't Understand

            Isn’t it her job to understand me? Isn’t that what the school is paying her to do? Then why doesn’t she get what I’m saying? She keeps thinking that there’s this big underlying reason for my frequent daydreaming. Like I was abused as a kid and it’s how I get away from my terrible reality. She thinks I’m crazy because I prefer to live in my head and that reality makes me feel suffocated. Well guess what, I think she’s crazy because she thinks I’m crazy. I’m perfectly normal. I just like the world in my head more than reality. Where do I go, you ask? Well, let me tell you about my little fantasy world.
            Whenever I don’t particularly like the real world and the people (they’re the ones who should be seeing the shrink), I close my eyes and let go. In my mind I soar high above my body and out the window. As I fly to my sanctuary free of doubt, the sky steadily grows darker until I am bathed in velvet night thick as eternity. For some reason, night is more comforting to me. The rhythm of the stars calms my soul and the crisp air makes me feel alive. Some people feel relaxed by stepping into a warm bath, right? Well, I unwind in the crisp night air.
            I hit the ground lightly and start running on grass softer than goose down. I run but never get out of breath. That’s one of the wonders of daydreaming. You can do whatever you want, no matter how improbable. Everywhere I go here, I can smell freshly mown grass, even though the meadow is always long and luscious. I run and run, jumping over a sparkling stream or two, until I reach my hill.
            On my hill stands a single oak tree taller than any you’ve ever seen. Depending on what I feel, my tree changes to accommodate my needs. Sometimes there’s a swing hanging from a thick branch. I can get high enough that I can almost touch the leaves. The wind rushes past me, imitating the feeling you might get by running your fingertips on satin fabric. Sometimes I just sit under the intertwining branches and listen to the wind blowing through my tree. Sometimes I climb the thick trunk of my oak tree and sit in the branches, eating sugary sweet fruit. Oak trees don’t have fruit, you say? Maybe not in your world.
            Unless someone shakes me from my reverie, I stay until morning. Sitting with my back against the sturdy trunk, flying high on my swing, or perched high in the branches, I watch the dawn’s unfurling mist sweep across the valley. The vibrant colors of morning paint themselves across the sky, each morning revealing a different picture. Painters, poets, and writers would be jealous of my safe haven and its beauty, were they to know about it. But I’m the only one who knows its true beauty.
            After the sunrise, I always make myself return to my body. Most of the time I’ve missed something someone has deemed important, but I don’t care. Until they send me to this little room with the lady who’s supposed to know what’s going on in my head. Then I get upset because she doesn’t get me and everyone thinks I’m crazy. But I’m not.

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