what is recorded here is dark, and at some moments graphic.
It is not by far the most graphic thing I have written, as it is simply the rambling of my mind and has no purpose other than stream of thought.
You call me mentor and ask that in my wisdom, my exemplary propriety, I impart what I know to your children, to the souls who are the future. Do you not know what it is you ask? Can you not see that behind the wisdom in my eyes is a danger undefined? That glimmer you call the light of intelligence is in actuality the fire of a chaos you cannot comprehend. What I have has sent countless others to the forgotten recesses of asylums and crypts, has shredded lives and broken hearts and terrorized entire cities like a demonic plague. But you see only my confidence, an organization foreign to the uneducated semi-serfdom which laps at the heels of progressive society. For all our technology, education and experience, we cannot seem to shake its nagging hold and make of it a filthy artifact of our history. And how can we accept this responsibility and take it unto ourselves? Is it not, after all, the duty of the elect? The duty we leave to the children for them to attend in their era of power... And so the children are sent to gain skills which will redeem us all from the starving dog of poverty, apathy and ignorance which hands at the heels of society like so much unwashable mud or refuse. And I am their teacher. I manage and strategize and intervene, I conference and standardize and I teach them the best of society's reasonings. I enstill a desire to climb where there was none, a shame for misbehavior, a pattern of logical goal setting and study. And all the while, I am feeding on the raw depravity of the human spirit. For children slow to acceptably socialize retain the most honest forms of mortal base. Cruelty. Vulgarity. Blossoming sexuality. Shameless curiosity. The teacher seeks a student with he highest concentrations of these and makes him a project of transformation, guiding him to the enlightenment of social propriety. He is success in the making. And you will never know that all the while a portion of my heart calls to him, "Do not desert your depravity, child! Fight it and win!" And I know he will not. He cannot win. For the world works backward, and the only way for him to be base and free is if he can do so safely inside the protective mask of social acclimation, as I have done. Far more prevalent, I have learned, is the growth of depravity from propriety, than the preservation of such a nature through the course of social adaptation. Too often a nature is broken to conformity and loses itself in the process. Still, there will be those few who fight the capitalistic ravaging of the heart each day, and continually resolve never to be broken and lose the battle. I teach the children nationalism, patriotism and pride when behind the lesson plan is an undeniable belief that the system breeds hopelessness and decay of the human spirit. I test them and grade them, aching inside to refuse such 'tools of education.' I take every step to ensure their attendance, believing all the while that they shoudln't have to be there. But these beliefs, while socially inacceptible, are not by any means unheard of. Darker passions stir behind my teacher's wisdom. And you will never know of the imaginings of my heart as I meet with you in conference. You will never see the blood I see in my mind trickling from the open throat of your son, nor taste the salty tears of your daughter the moment before she surrenders, unconscious, to her pain. You will never close your eyes and imagine the tension of human flesh just as it breaks and begins to bleed or hear in your mind the music of bone cracking, shattering irreparably at the deadly impact of my morning star. Sweeter still to me, the warmth on my open mouth of a neck yet unbroken, the terrified rhythm of the gasping breath of one doomed to be my midnight meal; the sweet cologne of a beautiful man who longs for my kiss, his sweat and then his struggle at the realization of his slavery to my passion and my thirst; the weeping plea of a perfect youth, her begging, mournful whisper, "I don't want to die!" But I cannot let her live. Perhaps a more fascinating reality, and one of some humor for me, is the popular belief that your children are immune to the macabre. Like with so many better known ill-fates to be had, you contentedly muse that while some tragedy exists, it is beyond your exposure and cannot permeate your secure reality. Day after day you send your child to me for education, to prepare her for the reality you have created for her. And yet the greater truth is that one day a young man will sit down next to her and study her face like so many others have, its freshness and blossoming femininity, and he will ask to eat lunch with her, or see a newly released movie, or study for a history exam. And you will think he is polite and respectful and be glad such characteristics still exist in modern youth, and then you will weep when your daughter's body is found floating, white and drained of all its life-liquid. And perhaps the next day this young man and I will make eye contact and I will chastize him with no more than my stare for choosing such a visible target, and proceed without another thought to the lesson plan, being sure to note her absence and make a concerned call to her family as if I were ignorant. Of course such a scenario is unlikely, and one of an unfathomable number of possibilities you will never think of as you rush off to work each day. Instead, your child will be deposited each day in a school where he is expected to learn the ways of surface reality, the life he will lead as his world revolves, ever changing yet timeless. And he may live as you do, never knowing the light that glimmers in Teacher's eyes. She is, for the most part, content to muse silently and imagine sensations kept still for another time. OR possibly he will come to suspect her of untold humanness and in so doing earn a greater respect from her for his perception. Still time will advance, and all the known world will age a little, and one day your son will be a man in another place, and he will breathe, and sweat, and desire....and he will walk a dark alley by moonlight. But these are things you can never surely know. In the depth of reality to which you are yet unaware, they are merely the musings of my masked heart, fueled by that light in my eyes which is not wisdom, and fed by the life of countless mortals who, like you, are unaware of their sweet scent, sound and flavor.
