A BROKEN SYSTEM
Three sentences – the catalyst for complete change:-
If money was the root of all evil then what did that make those partaking in the system?
Were we all unwittingly evil or was the money concept evil?
What was the alternative?
The principal coughed and shattered my churning thoughts. He turned from his archaic filing cabinet, trudged across the brown leathered room and then plonked down on his worn seat. He studied me for a short while and arranged some official looking papers. He carried the aroma of ‘old man’s musty aftershave’ with a hint of lemon.
“Gillian I am going say this as best as I can… I’m sorry but the government funding for your lecturing post has dried up. The paper you wrote on Reactance, Resistance, Reflexivity and Reversal in times of financial and social hardship didn’t go down well… at all… with anyone… on the board.” The principal paused, stared at the papers and sucked his lip through his teeth. He sounded like an emptying plughole. “So… we are going to have let you go.” He shuffled paper, re-aligned silver pens, and peered over his black-rimmed spectacles.
The sound of my clawing nails over leather filled the stagnant atmosphere. The heat of the blush accompanied by stunned silence and gritted teeth was enough. What could I say? He had always reminded me of an elephant seal with glasses. I glared at the ceiling spotlights shining on his heart-shaped bald patch. My fists clenched, my stomach folded and I scrutinized the five stunted hairs traversing his scalp combed from left to right. Thirty-two illuminated specks of dandruff sat in the curve of his pinstriped lapel. Twenty-seven hairs poked from the top of his crisp white shirt. There were two shaving accidents on the left side of his face, one half-healed. I distracted myself with patterns when the reality was that the institution had taken for granted all my years of hard work. The paper was a warning of what was to come. Were they oblivious or were they caught in the mass persuasion mania? Who actually wanted to face they were the product of their conditioning? Who wanted their life-value equated to figures in a bank account? That paper was not written for approval from a board of grey people who talked with haughty taught accents! It was inspired by a vision and evidenced by research. Obviously they did not know about the latter because one could never rationalize inspiration or intuition. That was for mad people.
The sound of a diver’s ventilator filled the atmosphere. My deep breaths were punctured by the aroma of dark wood and lacquer. I could hear my heart pounding in my throat, yet I couldn’t say a thing.
He stared. Waiting.
Three sentences had ended an era. My silk-lined rut intended to eject me into the unknown during a time of financial unrest. I stood silently to leave. With my throat fully constricted, what was there to say? They would soon find out that intuition combined with true analysis resulted in unpopular findings. Unfortunately no-one wanted to hear or acknowledge what was inevitable. The preservative imbued bread and elaborate digital circuses kept the mass hypnotized, fascinated them with subliminal messaging and towing the indebted line. Time was running out.