"Of course it's important. It's a metaphor," the English instructor says to me, after all the other students have filed out. He's talking about a student who questioned the significance of the opening scene in "Frozen." He's writing quickly on a pupil's paper, seemingly distracted.
I feel his frustration. No student in class ever fucking understands me or any opinion or position I might have on a topic (most of the time, luckily for me, I don't have a judgment on the various readings we do because I don't have enough information to form an intelligent interpretation--this includes our daily journal entries).
"If I can just get through the next twenty-four hours," he affirms, changing the subject.
He reminds me sometimes of a person with bipolar disorder (although I admit probably a mild form), the way his speech is occasionally too fast, his lack of sleep or need for it (as observed by the outside--maybe he only gets by with a shitload of coffee), his desire to take on a bunch of projects at once (bipolars tend to overextend because they have so much energy).
I'm only seeing these traits because they remind me of myself.
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