(no subject)
How do you expect me to ride, I wonder, when I've never gone more than one hundred yards on a horse, or even gone the same on foot without having to sit down. How do you expect me to play tennis if I can only run ten feet without losing my breath, and, sir, how do you expect me to even try when you compare me to my stupid, bloody, fucking brother every five minutes. "I see the Caiyd talent isn't genetic," you say, and you laugh, and I
Numbers. Numbers don't make sense, you bloody fools, with their variables and an order of operations that can be broken at one's whim. Symbols given meaning only through the masses' acceptance of such. Spelling is sense, and grammar is unbreakable save only for style - and what is sense, really, how does one earn the right to decide what makes sense and what does not. No birthright like the nobility, no item a merchant can trade, it's
I can't stand it here. I can't stand these people, these vapid, simple... I should never have left. I should have stayed home, stayed Kiernan bloody Caiyd's little-known invalid of a brother.
But, of course, he would make it, if I were he - ha. If I were he.
Ridiculous, of course, that I trust my thoughts here. There is no lock one can't pick, or another can't find a way through. If I leave this anywhere, if I forgot it in class, someone could easily see... all of this. This insanity. And while I hate to deprive them of their bloody entertainment...
Caspian, Caspian, you talk to a book with no ears, both long for and loathe the company of others. What will be done with you, I wonder.
Kiernan would listen to all of this, curse him. He would listen. And laugh, and say, "Caspian, do you hear yourself?" And everything would be back to bloody normal.
If we're on the subject of teachers, I must say that Madam Parkins is perhaps my favorite of the lot. Mister Yoren, however, comes a close second. As for our dear mathematics teacher, well, I suppose I could only be preaching to the choir.