The Screaming Hope

The bell rings.
The sound who used to be strident and painful to my ears, seems now so calming and heavenly...
My positive thoughts are stopped by the reminder on my phone, telling me I need to go to Art class.
Remember when I told you Love and Art were kind of the only things that matter for me? Well, you would therefore be telling you that I should be happy to go to Art class. Hell no. Art is when someone has accumulated so much pain, sorrow, angst along with happiness or joy that they are able to intelligently sort it on a song, a paper, or a canvas. These things must have on them all the emotions the person needed to transmit. So a message is created. Then, the public needs to feel the actually emotions. Or else it doesn't work. Only, and only after all these conditions, the person can be named as an artist. That's Art. It's not something you necessarily do with your brain, it's something you do with your heart. Some bitches who make commercially shitty songs need to learn that.
The problem is, in Art class, we don't transmit anything. We don't express ourselves. We don't even learn to draw.
Teachers not ables to teach, remember?
We only copy lame paintings done by some lame painters. No emotions. No point. Nothing. I know you'd like to tell me: "But how are you so sure there's any emotion?". It's because nobody in my class have seen it. Not even the teacher. She isn't even interested in her job. Time become twenty times heavier with her. She has lost every hope in life, she tells us sometimes. She has just, given up. Wearing the same outfit everyday, sleeping during class. Pupils making fun of her hair, her clothes, her age. The only good thing she can now do is to go to the retreat centre, because what she does is not teaching. It is publically dying. At least in a retreat house she would be safe and taken care of.
But it is the same problem with nearly all the teachers!
They are so old and disinterested in what they do that it becomes jeopardizing for us. I don't want to be homeless because of them. I'm gonna fight, like always.
I've always fought. Not physically, but I always do. With injustices, with discriminations, with the pain. I think it has always been in me since I'm born on the goddamn Earth. I needed it, otherwise I would be dead. "Wouldn't it be grand if I take a pistol by the hand?" I sometimes tell myself. But the hope and the fighter character inside me always answer no. You're gonna fight once again. And once again.
And one fucking once again!
Ahh, sometimes I hate being raised with hope and stuff!
I walk with the other students onto the Art room. I see Lucie, my best friend, walking towards me, with Candy, Layla, Nyle and Jerr. These four persons are nice, I must admit.
Lucie is the most adorable person on Earth. She is tall, brown haired, with an optimistic sort of happy regard full of joy, implanted on the most beautiful face. I love her. Deeply. She is everything, she gives me hope for a better future everyday.
Candy is, well, like her name, delicious. Not to sound weird or anything. Everytime I speak to her she makes me wanna hug her and jump and dance and party everywhere. She has a delicate face, but with a twist, because it's so androgyn at the same time.
Nyle and Jerr are two lovely jerks. Sarcastic as hell, they always make jokes. But behind their hot faces and abs I'm sure there's a sort of fragility and sincerity that would melt an indifferent heart. There's fricking hope everywhere!

I walk in the room, reach my table, sit, and figure out there's someting fucking different.

Notes