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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The morning sun filters through dust-laden windows of the district education office like an unwelcome truth trying to penetrate wilful ignorance. Shelves buckle under the weight of untouched research journals like abandoned promises, their spines uncracked like vows never fulfilled, their wisdom sealed away like treasures buried by those sworn to unearth them. An academician sits before a computer, typing furiously like a performer pretending expertise—not on research that might transform education in struggling rural schools, but on a report justifying why such research cannot be undertaken this quarter, his excuses multiplying like weeds in an untended garden. Outside, children walk miles to schools where textbooks are outdated by decades, their futures dimming like stars overwhelmed by city lights. The irony sits heavy like the monsoon air before a storm that never breaks—those tasked with questioning, with seeking, with revolutionising, have become the guardians of stagnation like prison wardens who've forgotten they once held the keys to liberation. When asked about district visits, the senior professor smiles wanly like a politician caught in a lie, "Of course they're essential," while his calendar reveals no such journeys in three years, his words hollow like empty vessels making the most noise. Conference rooms echo with passionate debates about methodological frameworks that spread like wildfire while classroom realities remain unexamined like dark continents on an explorer's map. The district, with its messy complexities and uncomfortable truths, remains a theoretical construct rather than lived experience, distant as a shore viewed from a ship that refuses to dock. Papers are published not to solve but to describe problems already well-documented, accumulating like dust on the very solutions they pretend to seek. words pile in journals dust gathers on district maps both remain unread In faculty meetings, they speak of "knowledge creation" and "evidence-based policy" like priests reciting prayers they no longer believe in, yet the evidence they seek is that which confirms existing beliefs, their minds closed like fists around comfortable falsehoods. The true irony burns like acid on bare skin—not in their failure but in their refusal to acknowledge it—the researchers who will not research themselves, blind as moles to their own hypocrisy, the critical thinkers who exempt their own thinking from criticism like emperors above the law they enforce. Meanwhile, the distance between academic towers and district schoolhouses grows with each unwritten field note, each uncollected data point, each unasked question, widening like a wound that festers from neglect. theories blossom while classroom walls crumble papers in the wind The greatest irony reveals itself in silence, the absence of curiosity from those whose profession demands it, a void yawning like an abyss where passion should reside. How strange that those who champion inquiry have stopped asking the most important question: "Am I doing what I was called to do?" Their avoidance persistent like a chronic disease resistant to treatment. The mandated becomes the avoided like vegetables on a child's plate; the essential becomes the optional like safety equipment in a hazardous workplace. And so they continue, writing about transformation while resisting it like swimmers fighting the very current that would save them, studying change while fearing it like nocturnal creatures shrinking from dawn, and speaking of the future while clinging to the past like sailors who refuse to leave a sinking ship.
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