#1 ·
A lecture hall half-filled with students hunched over laptop screens. Some are grinding through assignments, while others are whispering to friends about secret crushes and dilemmas they try to mask behind practiced expressions. A few are just desperately trying to distract themselves from the looming wave of finals, attempting to steal one last day of blissful ignorance before the crushing reality of the next few weeks hits them like a freight train. That’s my group. I’m sitting there in casual clothes, sporting a haircut that practically begs for a professional stylist’s touch, wearing these old glasses just to stop the screen in front of me from giving me a massive headache. It’s funny how this plain little box gives me a way to escape everything around me—an escape hatch I’ve been using more and more lately...
And just like that, I’m stepping into that headspace. I’m still aware of the people around me in this room and out in the halls—people speaking a language that feels foreign, discussing problems that feel alien to me. They don’t know me, and frankly, they have no reason to. In every sense of the word, I’m an outsider. I look different, I’ve got this dreamy, distant stare, and I’m thinking in a way they can't follow. Sometimes I feel like they’re looking down on me, but I have to admit, I’m doing the exact same thing to them. I watch them and judge them because they don't "get" me, because they aren't capable of being real friends or respecting the values I hold dear. I feel lost—lost in a different country, in a completely different world. The people I actually love are far away, and I don't miss them constantly... it’s only when my defenses drop and my mind wanders through those fields of memory, tucked away behind the rocks of fake satisfaction and stubborn pride.
The people around me aren't the problem; I chose to be here to run away from the boredom and the predictable grind of daily life. To me, these people used to represent adventure and a fresh start. And honestly, they delivered. The adventurer in me discovered new landscapes and new faces; the egoist in me found validation and showered in endless praise; the curious kid finally learned what life is actually about. But unfortunately, the prisoner in me hasn't broken out of the cage yet—a cage forged from years of insecurity, self-doubt, and being ungrateful for the blessings I’m now incredibly thankful for, even if they feel worlds away right now. This "new life," this grand adventure, has slowly morphed into a new kind of prison—one that’s harder to pinpoint, a prison where I am wandering lost, as paradoxical as that sounds.
So, how do you run? Or is running even possible? Do I keep pushing forward on this same path and let life beat me down, waiting until I’m tough enough to shatter these iron bars? Do I go back to the beginning, back to when being trapped felt sweeter because I was sharing it with the people I love, back to when I wasn't even aware of how lost I really was? Or maybe—just maybe—I’m not actually lost. Maybe, just maybe, I’m not even imprisoned. Perhaps the very fact that I’m even contemplating this means I have the capacity to consciously find a way to break these bars and find myself again. Maybe I’m actually lucky—luckier than the people who don't even realize they're in a cage, unaware that they’ve wandered off their own paths entirely...
Tomorrow, I’m hitting the barbershop, and then it’s straight to the books. Finals are coming. Reality is brutally clear and unyielding; eventually, I’ll forget all about being lost, about how alone I still am in this world. I’ll wake up feeling happy, blissfully unaware of the pressure building up inside me—the stuff that will inevitably bubble to the surface and force me to run again, toward a new prison, until I get lost once more... and forget all over again.
And just like that, I’m stepping into that headspace. I’m still aware of the people around me in this room and out in the halls—people speaking a language that feels foreign, discussing problems that feel alien to me. They don’t know me, and frankly, they have no reason to. In every sense of the word, I’m an outsider. I look different, I’ve got this dreamy, distant stare, and I’m thinking in a way they can't follow. Sometimes I feel like they’re looking down on me, but I have to admit, I’m doing the exact same thing to them. I watch them and judge them because they don't "get" me, because they aren't capable of being real friends or respecting the values I hold dear. I feel lost—lost in a different country, in a completely different world. The people I actually love are far away, and I don't miss them constantly... it’s only when my defenses drop and my mind wanders through those fields of memory, tucked away behind the rocks of fake satisfaction and stubborn pride.
The people around me aren't the problem; I chose to be here to run away from the boredom and the predictable grind of daily life. To me, these people used to represent adventure and a fresh start. And honestly, they delivered. The adventurer in me discovered new landscapes and new faces; the egoist in me found validation and showered in endless praise; the curious kid finally learned what life is actually about. But unfortunately, the prisoner in me hasn't broken out of the cage yet—a cage forged from years of insecurity, self-doubt, and being ungrateful for the blessings I’m now incredibly thankful for, even if they feel worlds away right now. This "new life," this grand adventure, has slowly morphed into a new kind of prison—one that’s harder to pinpoint, a prison where I am wandering lost, as paradoxical as that sounds.
So, how do you run? Or is running even possible? Do I keep pushing forward on this same path and let life beat me down, waiting until I’m tough enough to shatter these iron bars? Do I go back to the beginning, back to when being trapped felt sweeter because I was sharing it with the people I love, back to when I wasn't even aware of how lost I really was? Or maybe—just maybe—I’m not actually lost. Maybe, just maybe, I’m not even imprisoned. Perhaps the very fact that I’m even contemplating this means I have the capacity to consciously find a way to break these bars and find myself again. Maybe I’m actually lucky—luckier than the people who don't even realize they're in a cage, unaware that they’ve wandered off their own paths entirely...
Tomorrow, I’m hitting the barbershop, and then it’s straight to the books. Finals are coming. Reality is brutally clear and unyielding; eventually, I’ll forget all about being lost, about how alone I still am in this world. I’ll wake up feeling happy, blissfully unaware of the pressure building up inside me—the stuff that will inevitably bubble to the surface and force me to run again, toward a new prison, until I get lost once more... and forget all over again.