There is nothing else to say.

I have some stories, and some of them might even be good. I don't know. I can't talk or blog at all these days, and maybe until the end of the school year. I haven't felt so damn constrained since elementary school, and I very much need to get out of this beautiful, colourful metropolis so I can see what colour the sky is on the other side of the walls. This is my last battle with tedium for awhile, at least, and I must not surrender to the mundane.

I know, I know. This lunacy isn't really something I can call on anyone to share. The melodrama is my own peculiarity, and my episodes of delirium are the sole true indication that my brain may not be wired quite the same as everyone else's. So until school is out, and until the world shifts a little, I'll crawl inside my shell of self-absorption and sing myself to sleep with ballads of the fantastic, with requiems for unborn worlds.

By now you are probably well past sick of hearing about my itchy, itchy feet. But when a person is made to swallow their words and repress their impulses all their life, the eventual explosion usually transforms that person into a caricature of their reveries. This is a familiar plot device: never permitted sweets, he opens a candy shop; abused as a child, she becomes an assassin. The fifties became the sixties.

My impulse has a name: wanderlust. It is a very simple one to repress. After a mere decade and a half spent in one place, it has become an all-consuming obsession; every moment is spent contemplating a driving ambition to leave the city I love. And -- here's the other half -- I don't want to live here again, afterward, when all is done. Because in my childish vision there is no 'done', and life will continue to evolve forever if I wish it.

If I think about it, I know in my heart that one adventure would never have been enough. I still want those bloody spaceships, of course. I still want to be able to fly away from everything. And if someday I do, well...don't hold it against me forever.