Today I have had the worst news as of this year. I have long been crying over this people.
I will be handling third year students.
I feel weak in the knees and the sensation seems to promote an overflowing hopelessness on the fact that I will be tap in hell with this kids!
I will never understand the culture of this generation.
And every time I would see these kids, I feel as though the gap between me and them have grown wider and wider, that no type of bridge would be able to make us on the same plane again.
Every time I see them the same amount of sting surges in my entire body.
The problem is I am in no position to even admit, I hate them.
I am not even sure if I do hate them.
It’s more of a mixture of disappointment, misery and annoyance.
Disappointed for being somebody which they are not.
Rude.
Over confident.
Senseless.
Miserable because I know that they could be somebody better. Somebody who's-
Dedicated.
Honest.
Humble.
And annoyed because they have done this repeatedly.
These feelings are all rolled into one confusing state that is ever present in my life as of this moment.
I wish that this would be over, actually that is the reason why I do not want to teach them this semester.
But once again, escapism will never be an element of my life whether by chance or by choice.
There is sacredness in tears.
For me they are not the mark of weakness, but of power.
They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues.
They are messengers of overwhelming grief and unspeakable love.
I still love my kids.
