Wind Chills and Wax Museums

I escaped a cube only to be caught in a bubble. The bubble, at least, has a door. It is still somewhat cube-shaped, however. The predominant color is gray, which may or not technically be a color. At least it's warm. In another universe, a somewhat damaged version of myself is toiling outdoors in this subzero madness, coming home chapped in the evenings to a solitary domicile wherein he makes art, more art, and after that, art. In another universe, a somewhat pitiful version of myself is driving back from a retail job and still writing incessantly about a high school dreamscape. In another universe, things are better than they are now, but it's the sheer "how" of it that escapes me. Escapes all of us, I think.

The next several days are going to be arduous in the extreme. Not back-breaking, which I could respect, or emotionally draining, which (in the words of one fictional lawyer) "could be understood, if not condoned." Simply numbing, frustrating, and drawn-out. The rumor among the prisoners is: there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and we're digging for that light right now. The rumor among the prisoners is also: that tunnel is gonna collapse, just before we reach it. Nobody knows. They're all walking in those alternate universes, down those myriad optional roads, under optional suns and moons. Yet somehow everyone comes crashing down square into the center of the present, and they land together, grudgingly or happily. I am simply waiting for the bubble to pop. If my life is one of numbers now, then hear this--the number of things more important than a society-sanctioned occupation are limitless. The rules of existence are ours to follow or flaunt, and mostly we good-naturedly carry on for the sake of a peaceful chance at the end.

But sometimes, sometimes... don't you just want to dash it all to pieces, strike the set, raid the costume closet again? Maybe that's only me. Maybe it's the work of jesters.