You're not right.
Not for all your righteousness; not for the innocence nor simplicity; not even for the fact that this tumult I live in is cutting me down insubstantially, pulling out the carefully laid stitching holding ligament to bone, and with the tapping of tiny hammers seeding fissures that will, one day, be a snap.
I have lived in your paradise and wasted myself there. These credit card bills, these clocks (and their constant unheard march), these daily planners and To Do Lists are all confinement, but they are not manacles, nor corsets. These restraints aren't tyranny keeping you tethered and bound.
You're begging for freedom from this day to day, craving the little pieces of life—pieces that I dearly miss too, but the lazy days curled up with dog eared fiction and long cups of tea, don't appear when you have nothing else to do. The choice isn't between working and living, because those are the very same things.
That's why I am throwing myself at a system made to break me and discard the scraps. At the end of a year I have surely failed, but the things I've done while failing have caught up with fantasies that I could only dream before. For I have learned to paint the walls of my prison, and bend its bars into shapes that only I have seen.
There's freedom, and then there's freedom.
I may be locked away in a cell with shrinking walls, but the boundless person inside of me is stirring, and preparing slowly. Of course, it's only when I have no room to breathe, that my escape will be most miraculous.
