Baggage of an Escape Artist

I found myself lying in a pile of my favorite dresses and leather jackets for the third time in a year, listening to the usual pity-enabling and soothing voice of Norah Jones luring my soul into the highway that whispers “come away with me.”

This time not knowing where I am going, knowing what will happen and especially not caring more than ever what will come of it. Not a soul to know what will come of me either. The artist, the prep, the responsible one.

I let my hair out, broke out of the restrictions of my outer clothing in hopes of escaping the claustrophobia I constantly feel to society, ethnicity, our preoccupations that inevitable tie us to some sort of politic- those traps of the mind that take us away from who we are. Seems that for the most part it is a liability just to be human. When you get hurt, it is your fault. When you are in pain it is your weakness. When you give up you are a failure.

Most of the time I will fight to the death to make sure that I and what I represent are not strewn bout like some acceptable history, but in this moment- everything I represent is history until the man I am for myself finds the next angle.

Man paved the open road but only the car is limited to such terrain.

The only change I might make this time is to not wear a collared blouse in the woods.

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