Hermit

This is probably not the best time to write, or maybe it is? At this moment I feel trapped. I feel like dashing out in the street, running as fast as I can, letting my hair stream behind me and running into the open road before me. In a perfect world, I would run out of the house and up a nearby hill (imagine The Sound of Music) fling my arms in the air, whip my shoes off and dance around till I could dance no more.

Unfortunately, there is no hill and I probably couldn't run very far anyway.

If there was ever a sign that there is more than what we see, it is the nagging in my heart, the longing to break free out of my skin and just fly. And so I feel like a hermit. A content hermit. One who understands that for now, life is less than what it should be.

I'm reading The Borrowers to my children at present, and in a small way I feel like one (that wasn't supposed to be a joke!). I, and the world around me is living under the house, just trying to get through the day and deal with its up and downs. And yet, is this all there really is? Once you know that it isn't, your heart strings continually tug at you, calling out your name, they bid you to run.