One square classroom.
Made of concrete bricks and mortar.
Painted in a flaking mint green paint,
With a whiteboard permanently stained from being rewritten on and,
A line of desks and chairs arranged neatly in rows.
The only factors that change are the notices on the cork board, the posters on the walls and the faces that sit in their assigned seats.
Can you fathom that something as mundane as a classroom, with no special powers, no special pull or glitter and glam can hold within it so many precious memories. It is like the wooden chest which does nothing but hold precious cargo. Gems may come and go but the faithful chest can always be reused.
I get this nostalgic feeling inside when I see pictures of a classroom that housed me for a year. I am flooded with memories that don’t match up to the characters contained inside the pictures. It feels bizarre to see people carrying on a new life in my old vessel.
A classroom feeds off of the energy given to it by each generation. To someone who hasn’t lived in it, it may appear to be dusty, dreary and old and, to see graffiti on a desk may repel.
But for the one person who’s vision is limited, there are far many more who can see beyond.
I see ghost forms of old friends I’ve lost contact with;
I can feel it all again, being fed back to me, the energy I gave off when I was a child. The walls of the classroom release it back to me.
I feel exactly how I did back then.
An eagerness to experience life, a positive outlook, an unexplained thrill for the unknown and happiness.
Unlimited. Endless. Innocent happiness which hasn’t tasted the cruelty of the world.
One classroom, a million scenarios, a thousand memories and a hundred emotions.