Dreaming the life
I wake up every morning to a routine that is common to millions in the world: I drag myself out of bed in the morning, head into shower, catch some form of motorised transportation to a concrete construction which houses a small, compartmentalised space that is my world for most of the sunlit hours during the week.
Hello from an office
Tacked to the aged carpet that lines my cubicle wall are reminders that life exists beyond it. Pictures of outback Australia, the Holstee Manifesto, and other reminders to stay true to oneself.
It’s not bad, this life. It’s comfortable, safe, secure, and it pays the bills that appear in the mail with dastardly regularity. There are people out there who would give a lot to be in my corner of this particular concrete block, and I’m aware of it. But I have never experienced the contrast to this life, so I don’t really understand how good I’ve got it.
I dream of shedding the entrapment of a mortgage, obligation to philosophies I don’t believe in, and “essentials” i don’t need. Leaving the claustrophobia of the city behind and experiencing life as it happens; not before, not after, and not by proxy. Get my hands dirty. Get discomfited to the point where I curse myself for throwing what I had away. Be forced to give self-doubt, lack of confidence and other mental paralysis catalysts a kick and get on with things because I have to, especially in cases where my well being depends on it.
Learn to live. Really live.
My hat and boots are at the ready. I’m on the lookout for that exit sign.