I made my way to my old school recently; I found that my English teacher Mrs. Wise was moved to Pastor Bob's old room. The school gave my spirits a lift; many of my old friends were still attending. It was different though; they were all very much older, with more responsibility, and in their lives i had been somewhat put aside. As i sat there and contemplated this reality, Mrs. Wise announced the start of class, and i was thanked that i had visited, but was asked to leave.

As i went down the upstairs corridor, toward the Moose room, i viewed collages and posters on the wall. I noted that they were created from the youth that went before me, and the youth that came after me. It comforted me.

At Mrs. Moose's room, i noticed with some astonishment that there were many, many rooms along this hall. All of the teachers from this hall were unrecognizable to me; it seemed like whatever class i walked in on, they were obscure and unfamiliar to me. It became apparant that Mr. Barber, Mrs. Moose, Mr. Jones, and Ms. Hooker were no longer teaching; they were replaced with a hallfull of others. I viewed it as something unavoidable, but nonetheless regrettable.

Then i thought of my own locker, so i jumped down the blue stairs, taking them five at a time, and ran to my locker, but they had changed those, too. The juniors of my senior year were around, specifically Corey Nulton and Elizabeth Gardner. I turned back to the stairs and noticed on the far wall where the lockers were STACKED one on top of the other, three high, and an eighth grader was struggling to reach the third one. All this brougt to my heart a sad burden, which went out to everyone who went to school there. I had lived in its prime, its golden years. Those times were prosperous, and those times were good. It was clear that the school now was not its former self, and i mourned.

Presently, i left the establishment, concluding that Nothing that is Good on this Earth will Last. All must pass away to dust, but those things that do pass must be remembered in an appreciative light, rather than let become attatched to us, which is the source of grief. Contemplating this aspect, i let myself slip into a dreamless sleep...