He’s stupid, there must be something wrong in his head.  That’s what they say all the time about me.  He’s never going to amount to anything, I don’t even know why they bother with him, they’re just wasting their time.  I can hear it all repeating in my head over and over.  My hand is shaking, the pen moving with it.  There are so many ideas in my head, so many places, thoughts, feelings.  All I can do is stare at the blank piece of paper as I continue to shake, the woman who is suppose to be helping me watching over me, tutting and sighing.

I look out of the window, she seems no longer interested.  The dark rain clouds have gone, the sun shining brightly in the sky, a rainbow appearing above the houses opposite.  If only I could fly out that window towards that rainbow.  They say there are pots of gold at the bottom of them.  If I had a pot of gold I wouldn’t have to go to school, but really, I want to go to school.  I don’t hate it, I like to learn.  They think I am slow but I understand everything that’s going on.  This woman looking over me, she’s the stupid one.  I know there are no pots of gold at the end of them, I bet the other kids don’t know that.

At night when I am at home, my mother sits down with me and reads.  Sometimes for hours, I listen to every word, each description, each character planting seeds in my head.  When I go to bed I lie there and think about them, what would they do if they lived in my world?  Would they give up or would they carry on?  They are imaginary, made up by the mind of the author, but to me they are friends, friends and inspiration, they help me to keep going.  When people say I am stupid I think of them and think of what they would do, how they would ignore it and carry on.

What is stupid?  It’s a word used to make people feel better about themselves.  They want you to be stupid so they can say they are not.  How can you really know someone is stupid though?  They can’t see inside my mind, they don’t know what I think or feel.  There is a man that lives on my road, sometimes my mum makes dinner for him.  The kids make fun of him because he walks funny and sometimes trips over.  So to them he’s stupid.  Once mum took me to his house when she was bringing him dinner.  His living room was full of models made of matchsticks, he had made them all himself, if he didn’t walk funny would he still be stupid?

The blank piece of paper is still staring back at me.  My hand has stopped shaking, I know I won’t be able to do it this time.  Next time I will try again, even if it’s just a letter, once I can do a letter I’ll be able to do a word, one day maybe a story.  They won’t call me stupid then.  I won’t call them stupid for not believing in me either.  As long as I keep trying one day I will be able to write, I know I’m not stupid though, I just wish sometimes they could see inside my mind, I wish I could let them thoughts be visible.  She walks over and scrunches the piece of paper up and throws it in the bin.  I suppose some people are stupid.


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