I was growing up in a world of illusions, created by none other but my own self. It is an enchanting part of the world that no one got to see and I am keeping the mesmerizing view for myself. At the time, I was lucky that my companion to this very world was my little brother. Each day, we would go to an empty corner of our house and disappear to a new adventure of ours. Suddenly, a conversation of two in each of our mind sounds much more reasonable for others to understand.
Unfortunately, though to this day I am convinced that being comfortable with my imagination bring no harm to anyone (including myself), outside the house I was rather perceived as a distraction for others. Empathizing, that I had became a worry for everyone that people had to got themselves involved. I became the challenge for others to overcome. Often times, they got an unbelievable amount of pride and rewards had they successfully milked a little bit something out of my kooky and distracted mind. Out of the experience, I came out with four trophies, a prize, a photograph and an accused plagiarism of my very first writing.
Why am I telling all of this? Because living under the illusion of mine, I have grown to admire the person who nurtured me through the experience. I was living under the impression that she was the only one who actively trying to sheltered me from the cruel negativity of the world. I started giving my best to convinced that both of our judgements weren’t disgracefully misplaced. Whatever it is, we would like to prove that none of us are in the wrong, or so I thought.
But life is not perfect, so does people who lived inside it. To this day, I have her name up to one of the best teachers I have ever had. Though her kind and selfless persona was quickly shattered as I grown to accept the reality, I am heartbroken and grateful to reminisce the long, motivating and painful journey we both shared. Thinking about it now, I should have never chicken out when I still got a chance to thank her in person. In so many ways, she was right for being ambitious, judging me as a distracted little kid and worrying for others’ wellbeing. Meeting me, that is what all teachers would do. I just wished that she trusted me on the process as she did for others.
Because rather than being wildly offended for reading a well-written story by one of her pupils, it would have been easier to believe a kid with a kooky imagination to write her own fiction.
Farewell, my dearest teacher.
The Loudest Backyard 