There are times I look out my window at the woods down the street, with its trees swaying in the wind and the wildflowers all in bloom like Bob Ross ran his brush over the ground. Oh what I'd give to leave it all behind and take you with me into the serenity that surely resides outside my window. We could walk beside the river and admire the trees, laugh at the newly hatched turtles crawling through the leaves, maybe even take a nap beneath the shade of an elderly poplar who will surely outlive me.
However, I do not get that luxury. For the "real world" keeps me trapped. My potential keeping me in the rat race and my wishes left locked up. What even is real anymore? I ask myself and consider this question often.
But writing, writing gives me that escape. It gives me the ability to explore lands unknown and live in worlds unheard of outside of my room. Perhaps it is the writing that represents the biggest escape, keeping me curious and thoughtful. For now I shall write, and maybe write some more, so that these thoughts can be preserved forever more.