Beads and Masks, Costumes of Silk and Motley

Sometimes I wish that I could be someone else entirely. That's an adolescent concept, isn't it? Anywhere But Here, not only physical location. I don't even want something better; I want something else.

I've worked very hard to be who I am. I put the effort in. There's always a to-do list, but I weed, I wash the windows, I replace loose shingles. Today I'm dreaming of a yurt on a mountainside, or a hut in the jungle, or a penthouse in Manhattan. I'm thinking of a cardboard box in a stinking alley, a tattered mattress in an arroyo.

Life isn't craptastic. In a weighing-on-the-scales kind of way, the positive fills the dish. It's that being me feels so heavy, because being me is full. But don't you ever want to toss it all out a window? Shuffle off something?

Only spoiled children think thoughts like this, but knowing that doesn't make a difference. It confuses me to feel this way now, because I know that there are some things that I need to be done with or know are coming to a point of passing (new year's housekeeping), confuses me because I'm afraid of throwing something out with a finality, when the wise and moderate action would be to put it aside for now rather than leaving it by the wayside.

I've never been interested in being a grown-up.