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You need to follow your dreams.
That's what he says to us.
How with the arts, there is no right and wrong.
Why some people fail. Who they are. What they did incorrect.
He compares writing with math.
There is no similarity in my mind.
I feel the substitute's unforgiving gaze lock upon me.
Only me.
And the slightly swaying pencil nestling in the palm of my hand.
I can see him staring at it.
Why is he still looking?
He looks hungry.
A starved wolf eyeing its prey.
He commands the release of my sword of graphite.
He demands the absence of my canvas of recycled paper.
And for me to stop wasting everyone's precious time.
I ask him why he uses our precious time to tell me I am wasting everyone's precious time.
I am given a cold look. A last warning.
The less than pleasing title of a 'failure' is slapped on my face.
Apparently I am not paying attention to his words of so-called wisdom.
Apparently lack of eye contact instantly translates to dreaming off in space.
Dreaming and managing our time.
That's exactly what he's lecturing us on.
He needs to be educated on hypocrisy.
His long legs take him to the desk in the back.
The desk I'm at.
His face hovers mere inches from my.
Talk about feeling threatened.
He reaches for the paper, hand outstretched and of deadly consequence.
No.
My paper.
My drawing.
My art.
Stay away.
I abruptly rise from the chair.
I narrow my eyes into his.
The only thing I utter is just a last act of denial.
I am trying to follow my dreams.
And you are blocking my path.
With that I turn and I am floating out the door.
My name is called, threatened.
I continue on, drawing out my sword.
Since I know that words as well as images spring from the tip.
That pictures are simply a thousand words warped and spun like moon beams into lines and shading.
I guess I shall be punished.
For doing what I love.
For not letting my dreams out of my sight.
That's okay though.
I am merely dreaming.
I dream on with just myself.
And I don't look back.