Verses of a Wandering Scholar: A Symphony of Teaching, Workshops, and Scholarly Serenades

 **Poetic Journal Entry: November 24, 2023**

In the dance of days, I vowed to ink the parchment of my thoughts every eve, a ritual born of intention. Yet, a whimsical twist in the celestial ballet led me to skip a beat, and a day slipped through the sieve of my best-laid plans.

Teaching, an unexpected dalliance, not the muse that beckons my soul. Yet, in the grand masquerade of professions, it's a masquerade preferred to the grime of the service industry, where toil wears the guise of servitude.

A revelation, as if whispered by the wind in the moonlit night—I stumbled upon PowerPoint sanctuaries, secret gardens where time bows to efficiency, and class plans unfold effortlessly like petals unfurling at dawn.

Today, as Friday embraced the numbered hours of November 24, in the hallowed halls of Sishu Elementary, Class 503, a chorus of attentive minds enveloped me. Their love, an ethereal melody, invited me to partake in their upcoming games. Regretfully, a prior pact with a Kaohsiung workshop, inked months ago, held me captive.

Reasons, like riddles, weave through the tapestry of decisions. The workshop, a siren's call, beckoning with the allure of freedom, for it bore the price tag of naught.

In the shadow of future farewells, a specter looms—I, a transient sojourner in Taiwan, shall return to the embrace of my homeland, leaving behind the whispers of Formosan winds.

With time an elusive wisp, I yearn to dance through the remaining chapters of this island tale, a vagabond with a penchant for the cheapest odysseys. Hitchhiking upon programs crafted for scholars in this academic fiefdom, where I, though no longer a student in pursuit of parchment, bear the mantle that grants passage.

ELTA's embrace, a haven for English minstrels sans degrees, beckons me to serenade the eager minds. Student tour guides, where the currency is not of gold but of tales spun across the island's bosom. A workshop in Kaohsiung, a whispered secret, the password being 'free.'

The future unfolds, a Korean tapestry awaiting my narration—if the interview gods smile upon me.

Yet, beneath the guise of studenthood, I tread a path lined with silver—scholarships that rain upon me for the mastery of the English lexicon. TOEIC, TOEFL, Linguaskill, GEPT—a pantheon of alphabetic acumen. The wolf donned in fleece, seeking sustenance in scholarships, a dance with deceit, a carnival of cash.

In the interlude, a tangential reflection—Ms. Eva, the guardian of Class 503, a tempest of youth and allure, a temerarious thought on the tip of my pen. In this sacred script, I pause, pondering the propriety of such confessions.

The symphony of my days, a sonnet in the making, inscribed upon the scrolls of an unconventional journey.

Until the morrow whispers its secrets,
Steven