Periodically, we all move into the mind numbing mode of disillusionment that pushes us into the blackest caves of our cranium, moving us closer to depression. We start to imagine our time as a force ticking past; we can hear the tick, tick, tick into the abyss of nothingness, but the bills march on, and the children continue to grow, and time shapes us into an older version of our beautiful, earlier self; normally a bigger version, a fatter version, a version with wrinkles, gray hair, folds of spotted skin, and unspeakable abnormalities.

This would all be acceptable if only one could find a sense of justice. Of course, something larger and more material than a "sense of justice" would be better: justice on a platter, or justice from the top, maybe justice that coincides with truthfulness, a justice that is not blind to reality. After all of the meanness, and the petty lies, the thievery, and the troll under the bridge whispering into the ears of a snickering fat butter ball, then we could all accept our place, and toil for less with more joy in our hearts.

And this joy would be for the queen's rapid packing, and the whining and sniveling know-nothing ignorance of a test passed too easily will flirt off into the dance floor of another time, and another place, and all of us will benefit from the justice of the dotted line on a highway headed north, back home where this constant back and forth, backstabbing mediocrity is accepted as normal, and the nasally whine of a voice too cheap, and too falsely dramatic, will fade into the muffled memories of a building meant to spread truth, and reveal justice.

Finally, after years of struggle, a flower will find time to bloom in a garden that was once toxic with hate, lies, insecurities, jealousy, and petty greed.

That will be the day.

English teachers never have enough time to write; I wonder if this a conspiracy from the left wing education reform movement to silence the big voices in education, and stifle public discourse. You can only help change the world for the better if you know something is wrong; if those in power have hoodwinked the public then how do we alert an opposing force? Maybe there is a conspiracy, but it has nothing to do with me. Maybe I have dropped the ball on my Tweet Critique, and maybe I should just stop complaining and get back to writing. After all, in only a few minutes I can crank out a decent Tweet Critique on any of thousands of possible choices. It could be that I have done little or no writing because I am depressed. When I get the blues, it is hard for me to communicate to my readers. I feel stifled and sad, emotionally drained, and my fingers have lead weights on their tips rather than polished little nails, and they are tired and sore from typing plans and parent emails. I am done with depression. The solution is not mine to solve. the problem is not mine to fix. The day is not mine to change. I am merely along for the ride, and my ultimate destiny is unknown. I think I will start to write again. After all, Joan Rivers has died.