Breathing

Sussex, England
(literally behind the back of my dorm, and I didn't know until the last few days of school)

If I were a character, I would be living in a palace. I am clothed. Food is readily available. The guards protect me. And I am utterly tired of my life.

Everyday I would stand at the balcony and stare fondly at the mountains in the distance. I envy the wind that brushes my hair, for it is free to roam the world. Even the farmer has the expansive wheat field to run through, and the hunter has the uncharted forest to explore. But me? I have a palace for a prison.

But I am not a character, and my palace is a little townhouse that lies near the border of two contiguous cities in Southern California. However, I still stare at the distance, past the streets and blockish buildings, and dream of being free one day. . . . I don't know how other writers feel, but that is my sentiment when I look at other people, satisfied with their lives, and then at myself, sitting at my desk and typing away.

That is why I am here, writing the first post to my blog, when I am supposed to be studying for a career that is five years away from my reach, and in thirty minutes I have to dash away to my job so I can make a living. I await that day when the stories that have been imprisoned in my mind are flung to the world. This is why I write—to breathe.

To the writers out there, especially those who are seeking to one day find an agent and get published, how would you describe your feelings?