Saturday, March 12, 2011
It's knocking at the door of my conscious thought constantly. Nagging. It drags my mind away from the present to other worlds. New languages, foods, adventures. Who could concentrate on literary criticism when through the back of your mind flash images of snowcapped mountains bathed in yellow morning sun, a grey fog shimmering, settling over the green valley. Closely following these snapshots, I see plaster walls saturated in turquoise, yellow, and red paints, a sea of orange tile roofs. My mind wanders even farther away to all the possibilities, the vague images and perceptions I have of the places I have yet to discover for myself. Staring out the window, it is easy to ignore the Michigan snow grey with dirt and car exhaust. It melts too slowly, but exposes the first glimpse of yellowed grass, frozen until dead. For my mind to drift away from this familiar sight is no hard task. Will I ever really do it? Will I every really buy the plane ticket and pack my bags? Or will only my mind away?