Leave
I just want to leave.
To get out of this house; to go somewhere unfamiliar.
To get away from these four whitewashed walls and same people.
Just to escape the routine of life: exactly the same day in and day out. Conversations are even routine.
What would you like for this meal?
How are you?
How was school?
Does that even matter.
I want to take a plane, a car, a ferry, a unicycle; hell, I'll walk - to someplace else. Somewhere unvisited. Somewhere different; exotic.
Less of the same, more of the unusual. More colour and less experience. More variety, more glitter.
It'll be a field. A market. A bustling street in New York City. It'll be the house that looks like a farm.
Let's go to Ikea in Sweden.
These four walls are a trap. But it's disguised cleverly; you can't tell. It beckons you in with familiarity and security and warmth and comfort and you get comfortable, but then you also want change. But by then, it's too late.
Everything works like clockwork so why would you want to change that? Sure, there's a few bumps in the road, but they'll pass. What's life like without a few bumps anyway, say the people who haven't experienced anything more than a straight road their entire lives.
Wouldn't you like to know?
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