Fevered Dream in Spring

Today the city feels stifling and claustrophobic. I find myself longing to climb the Tetons and scream my lungs out from every peak. I would welcome a companion to run away with, but as there are none qualified in sight, I begin to realize one isn't necessary. I want to get away from the thronging mass of people. To occupy my own space as though I were the only human alive. To run naked through a field. I need the release that can only come from immersing yourself completely in the awe-inspiring fullness of nature. As I sit day in and day out in front of the sickly, electric glow of technology, I feel as though my soul is beginning to rot. The constructs and rules of Society seem to tug at me like quicksand. With an epic sense of wanderlust I long to escape. I find myself letting out strange guttural chords under the screeching, metal cries of incoming subway cars, rejoicing in the release unheard by human ears over the roaring drum of the train. As I eat I find my taste buds unsatiated. They long for some forgotten sustenance as the chemically assembled flavors deemed "food" slide over my tongue and down toward the back of my throat. I long for the freedom from money, the freedom to travel on a whim to places unknown, but the straitjacket of Society holds me captive. I sit at a desk made of wood particles glued back together and covered with a plastic overcoat, painted to look like wood. There is no craft left in the creation of the objects that surround me. I long to breathe. I long to sing out. I long to see myself for the small particle I am in the greater picture; to be dwarfed by the magnitude of natural wonderment. Yet here I sit, paralyzed by the cookie cutter days with no end in sight. As my societal shackles hold me tight, I yearn for the freedom who's memory aches within my bones. I must discover how to break free. And yet, even now, I feel the breeze of my moods gently shift, and I sense this burning desire may soon crumble into ash. Only a few embers of this immense passion will remain, not unlike a sleeping lion, and they will lie in wait for new moments to spark back to life. As for tomorrow, what shall I yearn for then, when moods seem fickle as weather in the spring?