I knew I had to get away. Summed up in a tempo of habits, days came to be a series of constraints. Inside the mind, repetitive motions ruled all awake hours. Unable to sleep through the night, weary, I grew blind to the view.
I knew I had to get away. Like a stale pond, repetition held me static; I was the prisoner of my own heart. No breeze, rain, nor thunder: only ill-fated tries to dialogue with myself. But chats, like hugs, are shared incidents.
I knew I had to get away. Spend a string of days soaked in varying worlds, even lost in ventures distant from my nature. Allow my senses to get overpowered with spices of others’ lives, if only for a few crumbs of time.
I knew I had to get away. And yet it wasn’t about chasing shadows of change. The barren, desperate landscape was a messenger uttering about many a smudge on my display. I needed to step out of my context, in order to get it back.