I love to play outside. Like I seriously love it.
Lady Gaga woke me up (she was my alarm) this morning singing this song I like. It’s called “Hair.” I have this thing where I make my alarm one of my top 5 favorite songs of the moment because then there’s a good chance that a good song will play in my head for a few hours, and then I can dance through the day. Anyway, I’ve been dancing to “Hair” all morning, and “Hair” reminds of me of Gaga’s “Born This Way,” and now I’m dancing to that too.
I don’t really like “Born This Way” that much, but I keep thinking, now, of ways that I’ve been born. And I’m most certain that I was born addicted to outside. I fantasize about outside- climbing to the treetops, playing catch, dancing in the grass, putting flowers in my hair. I look out the window at a sunny day when I study and when I’m in class, and it takes everything in me to remain in my chair. My chair feels wrong, physically not where I’m supposed to be. It’s torturous, really, because my addiction pulls at me always, whispering to me about the treetops and the off-task matters, ensuring that my schoolwork/emails/blog posts take twice or thrice as long as they should.
“Everything about existing in an indoor world ruins me,” I tell my comrade. She is an academic, a lover of the books, a fierce dedicator to them by nature. Oh, how I envy her, her lacking conflict in doing what she should. I explain to her how work indoors antagonizes me, and she explains how taking a break to play outside makes her anxious. Playing comes in second for her, and I know that’s efficiency. The two of us, we exist and succeed in the same world, yet only one of us thrives.
But I keep on and partake in the now. Because I am a believer in persistence for the things the world has deemed obligatory. So I give what I can, sometimes with a smile- chasing what the white collared named success, doing my best to craft answers. Singing to my songs, though, quietly.