I desire deeply to escape this cruel reality, and enter another world. A paradise, of my own creation, where I can walk among people and beings wrought from my own hand. Where I am the master of all, and the servant of none. Where I can cast away this primitive, lesser vessel of a self and ascend to a higher plane of existence. I want to run through the woods, encircled by the flittering essence of life, and peace. Where chaos is nonexistent, and my heart can feel true love. Where I am unbound to the whims of others and their regimes. I want to exist outside the foolish, primitive constraints of life, and become more than alive. I want to run with the wind, fly with the sea, cascade as the earth and flourish as nature. I want to be free of petty ideals and wishful thinking, and to embrace the reality that I desire. I do not want to be confined to this meaningless existence that we so foolishly call reality, but rather to go deeper, to go beyond reality, to the next plane of existence. To reach out fully with my mind and heart and seize the dream beyond my grasp that is so closely shrouded beyond the impermeable prison of my own existence. I want to be able to escape to my imagination, where my very thoughts can become reality. Is this a bad thing? I write because I want to go there, to other worlds and lands of my own creation, but it is folly for I will never reach it…
Poetry
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That’s the beauty- you always have an escape. The greatest pain comes when you close the book at the end of the story. Great, relatable post!