Writing Class

We sit nervously, contemplating our compositions.

In this class, we are told to write what we know; yet we know nothing. We feel everything, we think and muse; but know? Each person has thoughts, fragments that we call "knowledge", and they float aimlessly through the room full of pupils. Each thought desperately trying to form a cohesive idea.

"Write what you know"; yet if we know nothing, what do we write? We search our hearts and even this vital organ fails us. So essential to life yet utterly useless in this endeavor.

How does my heart betray me? My soul has knowledge, but guards it jealously from my heart and mind. Oh soul! Speak to me that I may know and write, that I can bestow your wonderful knowledge to others.

I hear the bell; the class dismissed, and my paper blankly mocks me.