Luka
E
V E RY AT T E M P T O F T RY I N G to write a creative piece ends with the Soviet literature taught to mass-produced children. My creativity was killed by the school teacher while putting me in her standards of thinking, writing, and breathing. Finding X according to the ancient rules is not my interest either. Neither is Physics since I don’t feel gravitated towards the earth, at least on my best days. Arts don’t fulfill the liberty I preach, since saying that Da Vinci isn’t the best painter can cause lifelong injuries with a freshly cut pencil, by the art teacher. The system wasn’t built for children whose story starts with “remember the time when we had no electricity because dad lost the job that he never got?”, but for children who have a story including rich fathers, leather chairs, and expensive cars. I don’t want my non-existing children to be raised with privilege, but with a sense of disappointment, problems, and one-dollar chicken soup in their mouths.
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-Darling, play your flute. We will manage somehowsaid my mother.
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DREAMING COST MONEY, MY DEAR
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