The wind beckons me and I step out once more, cigarette in one hand, wine glass in the other. A poise I repeat every 30 minutes or so. I stand on my “terrace” and listen to her twirl, her arms reaching as close as my tendrils. I want to walk down to the end of the Earth, which is the beach by me, dip my toes in the icy ocean and feel her chill my body to the bone. I want to feel life. Before I die I want to experience it and I have tried. I have tried everything I could get my pretty painted fingernails on, yet I feel as though there’s so much more out there. WHERE IS IT?

I get up every weekday morning at 6 am in order to get my sweet ass into work by 7:30. I pray each morning silently to myself that today will be meaningful. I play the part, do my work and respect my pathetic narcissistic superiors. I fantasize that this job is the career that I foresaw myself living for and I dutifully role-play as the ever-thankful young minded employee, asking the proper questions and returning the expected responses. Then I return to my one bedroom apartment each night and drink myself sleepy.

In my twenty-six odd years I have accomplished what? An Ivy league degree worth only the paper it is printed on; an overpriced one bedroom apartment that I needed a loan to pay for; a wardrobe of uncomfortable shoes and clothes and no longer fit because I am addicted to my treadmill – it is the only source of control I have over my life. I wait. I wait for the day that my life will mean something and I remind myself everyday that I am the only one that will make it count.

I want to feel it, the wind, the rain, the power that is this Earth, the thrill that is this life. I want to taste it and chew it, and spit it back out because I can taunt it. I want to LIVE.