Stream Of Unconsciousness (week-ending)

A heap of broken images. Breathe. Relax. Rest. Sigh. Breathe. The week`s work has ended, the weekend`s work has just begun…

`Tis been a mighty fierce span o` moments, since the dawning of the first “Moon Day” o` this week, and I feel the pains of this middling duration even in the wee hidden corners of my frame. Tension and fatigue grip lazily at the bowstrings of my forelock; a braying soreness mocks me from the recess of my lower spine.

I enjoy the work and I adore the children but I fall over myself into each weekending, eager for the laughing tranquility and loving quietude of my home. Though my time is certainly always my own (as much as such an abstraction can be thus) it is never felt to be so as much as it is during the weekend.

A week`s worth of memories, where thoughts flutter into one another like butterflies in a clear jar…

…dead Winter`s trees sleep

in the black silhouettes against the starlit night.

The hurtling roar of the automibile and the faraway whine of a siren,

the wind creekings through the dry branches.

I think on the many lessons taught and learned, a method wrought and re-worked through the molten steel of theory and practice. Bemused countenances, haughty sneers, ebulient wonder, and bitter tears …all of this, on the faces of children.

One two-day span to rest and prepare, two days too short – never enough time to do it all, all the time in the world to not do enough.


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