The Death of Me
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He suffers in deaf, dumb, blind and limp silence as, with blistered and bloodied feet, he climbs the crumbing path. His memory teased with the idea of milk and honey, sunshine and rain, warm clothed and a feathered pillow. These days seem like a dream, an ideal that was once real but is now shrouded in shadow and distorted in discontent.
He stumbles again on the glass that tears at his feet and turn his palms to ribbons of crimson as he clings to the rock face, the cold hard wind like needles on his naked flesh.
Others walk his path. But none seem to care. They stride proudly with confidence and leather bound shoes. They take no pity on the cripple and do not offer him their coat or a sip of their water; instead he receives a thrashing and a bitter swig from a hip flask that causes him to stumble further.
But still he crawls up the mountain face, painfully making his way up the path of enrichment, hoping that by some miracle there will be, one day, relief, warmth, comfort, leather bound shoes and a crust of bread.
Education will be the death of me.
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There's this sentence in the back of my head since forever, that goes "life will be the death of me". But yeah, that's education how I remember it, nicely dramatized.