Escape? What a concept. Everything we build in life has an escape hatch - hell, even planes that cruise at 30,000 feet going hundreds of miles an hour over open stretches of ocean come complete with a big red lever. In case of emergency plummet outside the falling tin can...better view. But life, itself, is a flawed piece of engineering. No hatch. No lever or button. No second chances. Life just has one entrance, “This way, Sir or Madam, just split your mother open and come in screaming,” and one way out, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

I don’t pretend to know the reason - maybe God was busy building other universes and, like a sleepy architect, forget a fire escape on his tallest tower. Maybe he’s a sick fuck and likes to watch all the crashes. I wouldn’t be so quick to judge. Why do you think NASCAR is still in business, anyway?

Whatever the case, the game is rigged. You can’t come in without begging to leave sooner or later - and when you do you’ll find all the doors are painted on the wall. Probably should have read the fine print, huh? So you ask me how I get away from it all? My answer’s the same as yours. We can’t ... still, there’s worse ways to spend your time than dreaming of things that won’t come true.

Lost in a book,

I stare at aged pages,

Gazing at typed words,

Peering into fantastical worlds

The stress of reality closing in,

Squeezing so tight,

I fade away

My mind escapes

Into an unknown place,

One of mystery, one of myth,

One different from where I truly live

Within these paper walls,

Snuggled next to splotches of ink,

I slowly close my eyes,

Falling into a magical dream

Mayhap

I'll travel to foreign lands

and times that have long past

forget present day travails

to fall in love at last;

fight dragons or beasts

meet princes and kings

fly to the heavens

with no need for wings

solve a deadly mystery

of a twisted, genius mind

immerse myself in history

learn more of mankind.

Perhaps

I'll walk in nature

admire flowers and leaves

listen to birds chatter

hear silence in the trees;

walk around a lake

or along the shore

watch the sun rise or set

bed on a forest floor

float in cool water

a bottomless blue

gaze at an endless sky

reflecting the sea's hue.

Maybe

I'll lose myself

in piccolo and violin

a concerto for piano

flute or mandolin;

an orchestral extravaganza

a musical or ballet

melodious voices

with a story to say

whether country or rock

smooth jazz, punk or pop

new age or latin

or even hip hop.

Each of these

offer escape

while awake,

but if all else fails

a nap I will take;

for sleep

provides respite

from life's

darkest days

where sweet dreams

are real

and pain

goes away.

have you ever tasted the saltiness of the ocean or the iron taste of blood, the cuts on my writs symbolize all the times I lost the inner war within my body within my self within my heart

have you ever tasted the saltiness of the ocean of the iron taste of blood, I took the life of that young girl I called myself back then, only to call myself me who I am now, make sense, I didn't think so. I love you, is so foreign on my tongue. so foreign and so sweet, like a nectarine.

have you ever tasted the saltiness of the ocean or the iron taste of blood, I kissed you goodbye one last time but I didn't know that would be the last time,

how do we ever know the last time is the last time.

the cuts on my wrist symbolize all the times I lost the inner war within my body within my self. within my heart.

What would it be like to be free?

To escape reality?

How would it feel to not be trapped?

Within these four walls,

I pace back

And forth

Surrounding myself in what I thought I once lost

I think to myself

About who I would be

If I could for one second,

Escape reality

Would I be brave?

Like the warrior tribes,

Would I be able to open my eyes?

To see the whole world,

With a fresh perspective?

Or would I be small?

Scared of my own narrative?

What would it be like to be free?

To escape reality?

I don’t really know,

What’s right or what’s wrong,

and no more at night,

shall I cry for so long,

for this is free,

this is my reality.

My place arrives at 6:00 am under an orange sky, the sun’s shell cracked and fried over-easy.

My place sounds like Skynyrd, so my toes must tap along.

My place has a garden hose, a sponge-bucket, and a pick-up truck.

My place has an old dog lying in the grass, and a pup dropping a ball into the sponge bucket.

My place smells of water, and soap, and wet dogs... sweet smells, all.

My place tastes like black coffee, static and bitter.

Mine is a simple, three hour therapy that cleans a truck, trains a dog (and his man), and rights the perplexing spins of an unbalanced globe.

Pack your bags girls

It’s time we get away

Toss your tote

In the thalamus

Cart your case

To the cortex

Stash your suitcase

In the cerebellum

Meet me at

Heart center

It‘s time we get away

From this harsh reality

Breathe now

Let’s reconnect

At our sanitarium

Where “we” can return

I can be whole

My chest tightens as I struggle to breathe. Words and sounds rush by me in a flurry of motion, but I’m unable make sense of either. The endless litany of noise causes me to feel as if I am being compacted, pushed, and pulled, until all that’s left are a few broken pieces of myself scattered here and there on the solid floor. It takes all of my strength to hold on. I curl up with my knees close to my chest, hugging myself tight. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my eardrums, and all I want is to be anywhere but here.

Taking a deep breath, I observe my surroundings. Everything is still. My desk and piano lay dormant, awaiting a new surge of creative energy. There’s a wall of bookcases directly ahead. Stained in dark wood, they carefully display organized rows of the stories I’ve collected throughout the years.

A sudden sense of calm rushes over me as I take in the sight. Each novel waves a gentle hello, beaconing me to delve into the comforting escape they offer. All bring me joy, though each contains vastly different worlds and personalities. The characters in these stories are my friends. In the hours we’ve spent together, I’ve come to see them as more real than the strangers I observe outside of my window. We’ve laughed and cried, been anxious and excited, amazed and brave together. The adventures we’ve experienced have shaped how I view and treat the world. They are the foundation upon which I am based.

Now, I know what I need. Reaching carefully toward my faded copy of the particular novel that gives me more joy than anything, I hold it close, cherishing the familiar feeling of anticipation one experiences before embarking on a magical journey. Its corners are worn, some pages torn, and some of the letters are beginning to fade, but it’s just as beautiful as the day I first held it in my hands.

I huddle under the covers, careful not to bend the pages of the book to which I owe my happiness. The lights, save a small lamp I use for this very purpose, grow dim around me, and I’m finally able to breathe. Opening the cover, I embark on my journey into this familiar and fantastical escape, feeling an instant sense of relief as this story reminds me that everything will be alright.

There's a void in my mind

That carries me into the dark

Whenever the world

Becomes too much.

Days turn into weeks

Turn into months

Of pure nothingness,

I lose so many memories made

When I'm in the haze.

The only remaining memories

Lie within my writings

During those moments

Where everything is too much.

Writing is my escape

And my home

And the only way I remember

Who I truly am.

Reality becomes writing

Until I come back to myself

Clearing the haze

And the darkness from my mind,

Ready to face the world

Once again.