I finished reading " Teacher" by Sylvia Ashton warner. Tears streamed down my face when I read the closing lines

"5 year old tears on an autumnal face

....Thats why somebodies they broked my castle for notheen; Somebodies
...Nor all your tears wash out a word of it"

Strange how I read the above lines only once but they have imprinted themselves on my mind. These were the only lines which I did not write in my "lines -that- affected - me" book. Not strange. Only the organic and abstract at work. My Teacher. But Ma'am, I feel so stuck in this world where I have to write words which mean nothing to me. Words were glorious but they have lost their soul. I do not set them graciously; only repetitively. But I'll remember what you've taught. I will not let what you 've discovered and which you tried to teach disappear like the repeated, insignificant words that are pushed down my throat and which I inevitably regurgitate. In my minds eye, there loomed the image of a hand that moulded the substance which I am made of . Society has always crushed and pulverised so that I can become formless, shapeless....ready to assume the shape that the world has carved out for me. An insult to my intelligence. And yet, I am most revered and venerated when I insult my own judgement and uphold those of society. I have always searched for a teacher like you but my search has ended. I will write and write till my hands have no more strength. Organic, abstract, natural. I will, one day, know what it is to follow you in your foosteps. I may not tread the same path but the pattern of walking and the layout of the roads would be the same. A cresendo