Within and without

I am currently stranded, trapped within a void. My house is a multistory affair divided into distinctly separate living quarters. My family owns the entirety of the large suburban construction but due to reasons of finance we rent out all but the ground floor. Due to this arrangement there is a hallway shared by all the tenants from which branches off a locked door that is the entrance to what I can refer to as my home.

After a particular alcohol fueled nocturnal excursion about a year back during which I lost my keys. My mother has refused to provide me with a new set which means I cannot enter my own abode unless she is home. In the rare instance that she is away, since I can politely ask one of the residents in the higher floors to come down and let me into the building its self, she usually hides the keys to our actual section of residence somewhere in the hallway.

Today however, she has neglected her duties to do so, hence I am currently sitting in the hallway. I am typing this on my phone, while draped tiredly over the stairs which lie directly next to the door to my beloved home. My sentiments of misery are only excentuated by the fact that the motion sensitive lights turn off every three minutes, plunging me into the evening darkness thus forcing me to stand up and display motion in order receive the short attention and glorious light of the fickle motion sensitive machine.

To further emphasize this feeling of pathetic depression, my cat has run right up to the other side of the door to venture on a campaign of continuous melancholic mewing and sad scratching. It has stayed with me these past thirty minutes, crying from the other side of the solid impenetrable rectangle of wood and despite myself I admit I am rather touched.

Now I hear the light clink of the metal front garden fence and with it the approaching footsteps of liberation. So ends my actually brief but sensationally lengthy stay, becalmed within the void.

Holiday

 If leaving things that need to be done as soon as possible till last minute were a crime, I would have been arrested and taken to court long ago. The news would show chalk or pastel illustrations of my downcast face as I stood before the judge, pleading entirely guilty to the charges of irresponsible work avoidance. In short, I am a self-confessed procrastinator. Because of this trait I am forever forcing myself into a metaphorical corner, backed up and cowering against the wall, surrounded by sinister looming mountains of tasks that should have been completed hours ago but quite inexplicably, aren't.
 Hence you might assume that the opportunity to take a break; to go on holiday; to flee from the menacing malicious parade of labor (seemingly forever in slow but definite pursuit) even if only for a few short weeks, would seem like my ultimate goal. A safe haven, my equivalent of the helicopter complete with ladder for the fleeing foiled villain atop a building, the beautiful oasis filled with water and vegetation for the weary desert camel rider or the inviting open toilet bowl for the severely inebriated guest in a house decorated with expensive carpets.
 However that is not the case. That is a case that belonged to me about three, possibly two years ago. A worn old case, its aged leather surface scratched and eroded with time, any colour it might once have had long since faded out save in a few faint patches which stubbornly stain their ground as the last crumbling bastion of dying vibrancy. But a case not without its charms for what it lacks in outward appearance, it more than makes up for in contents, packed full of dreams, hopes, adventures, aspirations and potential I saw in the world as a young child.
 Whereas my current case (the case here being a metaphor for my outlook on holidays generally) is a cold unfriendly coal black rectangle, its strong artificial geometry only emphasized by its viciously sharp clean cut corners. Polished and newly formed with a sparkling reflective surface like the back of a beetle, but for all the novelty it holds as a brand new object, it is entirely worthless due to its contents or rather a lack thereof. When its gold coloured clasps are unfastened with a precise click and its lid smoothly opened, it sits a gaping empty casket of hopeless nothingness.
 Recently I have begun to see holidays as nothing more than a depressing experience where one can agonizingly consciously experience the passing of time. Of course there are enjoyable moments, events and happenings to punctuate the dull monotone aimlessness of it all but these exactly that, mere moments ina  far longer sequence.
 Because when you're busy, the very act of excavating a free moment to do what you enjoy becomes a goal and a reward, like precious jewels occasionally discovered while hacking through a near endless tunnel with nothing but a rusty pick axe. However when the jewels begin to line the walls where before there was depressingly solid rock, after a very brief period of elation, the jewel market goes through a very rapid inflation and after a few days of hacking through nothing but vibrant beautiful jewels, all you want is too see some patches of dank depressing rock again. Soon you are driven solely by the desire to be reunited with boring old rocks and even begin to paint jewels black with tar just to convince yourself that its dull rock and not a stunning gem but in your heart of hearts you're aware of the fact it's just not the same.
 Perhaps its a trait shared by all humans generally or possibly it is just a trait held by me, a damning indicator of my weak psyche as a human unable to experience true freedom, that we cannot handle purposelessness for a prolonged period of time. Perhaps the fact I am dependent on the school to provide me with daily doses of purpose shows how poisoned I have been by the system as a whole, I have been turned an aim addict. Corrupted and enchained, unable to feel true liberation, a prisoner of my own mind, I am a victim of the system. Therefore I blame the world for the fact I cannot experience holidays with the pure innocent thoughtless joy that I once did, instead having to painfully endure the knowledge that I am doing nothing substantial with my time as I gradually waste away my holiday hours, feeling my conscience slowly decompose. In short, I blame society.

Doughnut

 I'm certain most people have had the experience of a disappointing doughnut. Obviously I've just made the gross assumption that whoever, out of my very meager readership, is currently unenthusiastically running their bored eyes through this block of text, lives in an area of the world where doughnuts are readily accessible. That is to say, you, the reader, are not at present living in some impoverished mud hut situated within a third world country, clicking the computer mouse with starved twig like fingers and sitting on a chair more three dimensional than you are. However if that is the case, I would recommend that you sell the computer and use the money to buy yourself food, get something nice like some doughnuts. I'm honored that reading my blog is that important to you but would suggest that staying alive is perhaps ever so slightly more vital.
 To the other relatively non-impoverished majority of readers, I call upon you to recall a disappointing doughnut. In particular, a jam doughnut. It may be difficult, it may be painful, but try to remember that traumatic moment you felt thoroughly emotionally let down by a piece of confectionery. Close your eyes, let your mind wander back. In fact open your eyes since the act of closing your eyes must have prevented you from reading the proceeding instructions unless your eyelids are somehow translucent like the flesh of a jellyfish. Now, close one eye but keep the other eye open to read the instructions (unless you are the jellyfish man in which case your translucent eyelids allow you to see the instructions near perfectly without your eyes necessarily being open) then relax, think pleasant calming thoughts and allow your mind to drift back like a dead body down a river.
 You are a child again, your mind is pure, untainted and innocent. Words like "systematic", "infant" and "abuse" still hold no meaning for you and consequently you would be unable to accurately describe the games you play with your uncle when your parents are out, even if you wanted to. However that is not important at present, you must focus your mind on some doughnuts. Some round jam doughnuts which you assumed are packed full of sweet jam. No, not your uncle's two jam doughnuts, that is a different story for a different time, possibly involving a judge, jury and an anatomically accurate doll which you will be asked to point precisely at.
 Back to the jam doughnuts. Spherical balls of fried dough with a fine snow like sprinkling upon its golden coloured surface. You take one in your hand and bringing it to your mouth and imagining the delicious explosion of sugary flavor that will spread through your mouth as the jam breaks free of its floury confines, you bite down on it. Only to find that it tastes of nothing more than slightly sweet bread. You take a second bite, quickly followed by a desperate third, panicked and frantic like a mother looking for her lost child, you search in vain for the luxurious treasure trove of jam that was promised to you from the name "jam doughnut". Finally you find it, not a treasure trove, not a medium sized storage box, not even a shoe box but barely a scientific spatula full of jam.
 The unappealing globule of slightly sweet scarlet gel, the same colour and texture as congealed blood, lies sullenly, like some severely angst filled teenager sitting knees up to his chin, in a tiny corner of the doughnut. The same air of vague depression that is being emitted from the pathetic section of jam soon permeates your head, darkly filling the void left behind by the happy expectations which dissolved the moment you took your first hopeful bite. Feeling thoroughly let down by the supposed treat turned traitor, you cannot help but think to yourself, "Is that really it? After all that seemingly important build up, there's so little actual meaningful substance there!"
 That feeling, the sensation of surprise, betrayal and vague disappointment, is probably what most of my readership feel at the end of one of my long winded articles and it is more than likely the precise reason why I am yet to gain any followers.