Ends and beginnings—there are no such things.There are only middles.
Beginnings are hard.
Not the most optimistic thought to begin with but I need to start somewhere.
Random jottings that will begin the long-drawn process of digging an escape tunnel for all the stories buried inside me so they can finally be released from their prison and set me free.
So many are these stories now that I feel them weighing me down.
I feel the bearing heavy on me as I set out to work on a bright, new day, fresh-faced and spirited.
I feel their weight as I make my way, cutting through the waves and waves of people heading to work, moving with such synchronization that they transform into a single heaving mass of human drudgery.
Routine is so tiresome. Futile. Joyless.
I could think of a hundred other places I’d rather be than stacked up in a train with my nose buried in a stranger’s damp armpit, breathing in the scent of her sweat mixed with mine.
I’d rather be sitting in a cafe in a lesser known European town, with a name that sounds like dessert, as I watch the mundane foreign life bustling around me and struggle to interpret the deliciously unfamiliar words floating around.
I’s rather be topless, soaking in the sun in Brazil, losing all track of time with a book in my hand and alcohol in my blood.
I’d rather sit in awe in a Broadway theater as I see artists pour their souls into their performance all in a day’s work.
I’d just rather be anywhere else but here.