This Place is a Prison.

Every day I feel more confined to this body I was born into. I'd like to think I could fly, if only I was taught earlier enough. I am no more enlightened than any person on this planet. I too am chained by my ideas, perceptions, and lack of awareness. My own leaps of faith and moments of clarity become flooded by anger, or supreme pleasure. These are my emotions. They stand tall, weilding large batons, always keeping me in place, for fear that I'd escape.

As I sat in my wooden desk, with carved confessions of love in the lower left hand corner, I listened. Wide Eyed. And receptive to the input that would orientate myself to the space around me. My teachers were, and are, varied: Parents, Nannies, School, The Big Screen, TV, Books, Magazines, Friends, Loved Ones, Strangers passing on the street...

Nature is endless. Boundless. Without walls. Human beings build walls. We take the large expanse of never ending opportunities and imagination, and we carve it into understandable pieces. We put up walls. Walls between each other. Walls to keep out harm. Walls to make us feel safe. Never understanding that we'll never feel truly safe. We are fragile. And we will die.

I write to explore the blank page in front of me. Is it possible that my stumbling, clumsy, ill-coordinated foot work can lead me to something worth while?

A continuous effort is the process of deleting the notions of success, beauty, importance, and worth which was taught to me through these teachers. I am in a constant cycle of unlearning.