When I was younger, I went to a school to take an entrance exam.

Walked down dark halls, that seemed to hold secrets, with awards displayed proudly on dark green walls. Linoleum floors, that made every step reverberate around the room.

I sat at a big, imposing wooden desk, in a sticky leather chair that felt like it was going to just swallow me up.

I wondered what that would be like. To be swallowed up whole, disappear.

For the world to just slip from around me.

A lady with curly hair and silver rimmed glasses asked me question after question.

I suppose, looking back on that day she was trying to figure out whether or not I was smart enough, although to my six year old eyes, the questions bordered on ridiculous.

She asked me, I remember so very clearly, to describe a picture on the wall.

My brown eyes scrunched up.

I small boy sat on a wooden stool, staring off at something beyond the view of the picture.

I told the lady that he was seeing something different from what the rest of the world saw. Something that may have been good, but it may have also been horrible.

That boy was us, he saw the things that went on beneath the surface of life, the things that aren't always said, but rather implied. 

The lady bit her pale pink, chapped lips and sat back in her chair, staring at me for a long while before speaking.

Suddenly, I hated her. I hated this whole school.

People thought they were so smart, from the books that lined the walls, to the degrees in fancy gothic type.

They didn't understand anything though. Couldn't see what I saw.

The life outside of these doors, or those books, was alien to them.

They couldn't imagine dancing in the pouring rain, hoping your neighbor, a young, funny although occasionally cruel boy wouldn't be able to see through your almost translucent shirt.

They never mourned over a dead bug, or saw the sunrise though steamy windows.

The idea of finger painting repulsed them. The thoughts behind such dirty things seemed senseless. 

And I slid the chair back, and walked through that door.

Out in the waiting room, my Dad looked up sharply, his green eyes questioningly searching my face.

I never knew what he saw there, but we marched out of that building, hand in hand.

Out into the sunshine. Where there were birds.

And as we drove away from that dark, tree encircled building, I felt a wave of relief.

I saw.