Sometimes I want to transform into a small piece of chalk. So small, almost invisible. To sit white as a seagull's feather in front of the blackboard. No one to think of me. To feel the tear-streaked, anxious palms of the children being examined, watering me and making my tender dust even denser.

I will kiss the troubled fingers and gladly give my warm flesh to various theorems. I will quietly measure the pulse of each one who holds me in their hand. I will guess upon the lines and veins of each palm and will leave white dust like warm sand.

I will listen during the break to various gossip about the girl I used to be, and silently I will laugh. And when my brief white life melts under the wet sponge, I will become myself again. Then I will know more about everyone. And collecting the colors from so many disturbances and blue youthful pulses, I will be the happiest.

Pétia Doubarova