I don't think I’ve ever had a stronger impulse to run in my life. Were there things I tried to block out? Yes. Things I tried to forget about until I was forced to look at them? Of course. But not this. The accumulation of all these things that never seem to go away is higher than ever. I don’t just want to run. I want to flee. I want to hide away forever in some safe haven where no bad things can ever happen. I want to live on an island like Narnia or Neverland and fly with the fairies.

Life should have two things: a pencil and an eraser. A pencil to draw and sketch and write whatever you wanted, an eraser to get rid of anything you don't. You could write your own story. And if anything bad ever happens, some glitch in the drawing or words, you could erase it, swipe away all your troubles with the simple to and fro motion. If only life had a pencil and an eraser.

Ignorance is bliss. Bliss is ignorance. This is why I wish more than anything to go back to the days where I could not speak in words but in thoughts that could send me anywhere in this world and out. Everyone babies a child. You assume the best of people, as a child. You know no harm. You know only good things, good thoughts, good memories. Your deepest worry is that Mommy will forget to kiss you goodnight.

But you never dream that Mommy will leave. Never imagine that somewhere in the world resides a person that isn’t too nice. Somewhere lives a person that wants to hurt others, like you. Somewhere lives a person that knows no love, quite the opposite of you, who cannot see hate. Polar opposites.

To and fro, to and fro goes the boat you wish to board. The Captain is calling all aboard and the steam on the engine looks manufactured to cartoonish perfection. You start running, faster and faster until your feet are floating an inch, two inches above the ground. Just as you are about to step on the platform, it breaks. The boat breaks away, chugging along as its passengers cheerfully wave at you, as if they have no idea you are currently drowning in a swirling pool that resembles Riordan’s River Styx. A river dark and churning with broken memories. Fish them out and they crumble in your hands. Who would want to hold a ripped high school diploma? A love letter that was never sent? A basketball crushed with no air?

And that’s how you feel, how I feel. Like a basketball without air, like a flower without a bee, a butterfly missing a wing. And, oh, the longing to take flight! To fly, to fly! Not just to fly but to escape. To find that hidden place so many other butterflies claim to have seen and been to but you have never found. Is it hidden only from my view? Do others find the quest for the hidden place as difficult as I? Or is this place an illusion, a fabrication of everything I wish I had but do not, of everything I wish I could obtain but cannot?

Round and round and round twirls the sun, the never-ending existence of unquestionable time making day, then night, and day once more. The moon chases the sun. Or does the sun chase the moon? Is it the moon that wishes to be light? Or the sun that wishes to be dark? Surely, they must chase each other, round and round and round, without knowing. Without ever knowing that the other has what the other wants.

Round and Round and Round Time goes. What will happen? Nobody knows.