All the boys in class were revolutionized. Today was a special day. The new teacher began. Replacing a peculiar type that gave us several points of view on each subject, whether standing up on a table or sitting on the floor. He only talked about literature, but sometimes it seemed to be more quantum physics. He was a middle-aged man, about fifty with many birds on his head and very weird.
The door opened on that cold day, early February in a mountainous city; and we all fell silent suddenly. Young, inexperienced but with a strong and steady walk. We all returned to our desks quickly, in silence, as it had been a long time since this class was achieved.
- Well, who will be the first to go to the board explain to me what lesson you are in? - her first words.
The idea of having a good time from now on and being a mere process, this subject became a hard nut to crack, like the teacher.
The teacher won my attention, enthusiasm and respect from the first moment, that is what I want, someone who will revive my inner fire. That sergeant who gets you out of your cells but deep down, gets the best of you, even what you can not see.
Barely 15 years old I was, weak and influential, but with ideas that already appeared within me: writing. It was not a hobby to bring up teenagers if they wanted to be accepted as one more and go unnoticed.
I sat at the end of the class in alphabetical order, nothing to create problems. The teacher walked among the desks again and again; attentive to every breath, every voice. She could hear the sound of the pen on the papers of that first examination.
I was able to get nervous and at the same time, give me total confidence. I managed to concentrate on the exercise after several minutes. The notebook and me. So much that I forgot her presence. Suddenly, her voice, next to me, startled me:
- Keep doing it as you have been doing until now and do not forget that, it is always better to write about yourself and your experiences.