Breakout.

"Breakout!"

Inside my head, the bags are already being packed.
The carpet of my mind, ripped up and rolled away, to make room. . .

for new experiences, in a land far away, where the world is innocent and old, and real.

Inside my head, my boss is already looking
for someone new to train,
and someone else to bitch at about all the things for which he doesn't want to be responsible.

My coworkers will all say that they admire what I'm doing, but they will never admit they are just afraid of turning into someone like me.

Inside my head, the world spins and resolves itself into a new answer to an old riddle, and the escape appears before me like a welcoming child.

"Come and play with me!" the orphan calls. Escape is the easy way out for me, but maybe it is the hard way out for everyone else.

Inside my head, I want to be told that I am needed someone far far away from here. Where my two hands are needed. Where my back may be burned in work under a new sun, that speaks a language far different from my own.

The sun that I long to meet speaks the language of the curry and rice fields, and knows nothing of cotton and corn-mash whiskey.

Inside my head, my fingers are pulling apart boards, to be built into new homes, with new foundations, to cover old heads and young alike. The dirt beneath the nails in my mind is the land of a country currently bathed in sunlight and tears.

My shoulders call out that they are bored with the life I have chosen, and they long again for the toil of work that lasts as long as the sun is in the sky.

Inside my head, I am already in the middle of the breakout.

God grant me this favour? Let me follow this dream inside my head. Let it become my reality.