Trapped

Ever since I can remember, I've been nipping at the heels of "catching up on my work." It never gets done, and I'm always one step behind life. By God's grace, I actually have time to breathe this semester, and I find I don't know what to do with myself. After lifting my head from the sands, this ostrich has come to realize that she is all alone in the desert. In a way, busyness has long been the anesthesia that has blinded me to the true disease i suffer from. I keep busy to cope with the fact that I will never live up to my dreams. Allow me to explain.

I've been discovering something about myself: I thrive under simplicity. I had a taste of it while on exchange, and again during the recent Christmas holidays. They were times when my day was my own, and I didn't sit in sloth like I used to in high school. I get the vague feeling this is going to be the very thing I will chase my entire life until I find it in retirement. I was meant to be a retiree.

The metric? My writing. When time is my own and maslow's hierarchy is all met, I realize that my writing flourishes. But now, now i am in despair because i know that the world is threatening to take this away from me. Oh, how i long to just throw off this trap, how i want to run into the wild where i belong. I am like a tigress pacing in a guilded cage, with the zookeeper's noose coming right toward me. It is coming to get me, and to entrap me within the high walls of the zoo, where I will have to exist under THEIR rules. Where I eat, sleep, walk - where I live according to the precepts of that artificial world. My zoo awaits, and it is called Toronto.