My essay remains unfinished, as does other busy-work looming over my head. All the work that must be done casts dark shadows of gloom into the far corners of my mind, along with the more visible shadows that it leaves beneath my tired eyes.
I have consumed more ounces of dry Cap'n Crunch in the past hour than I want to consider.
It's times like these when I entertain a slim hope that if I only bundled up in a warm coat and scarf and trudged far enough through the snow, I would find myself at the wrought-iron gates of an old mansion. The very sight, smell, and feel of the grounds would whisper thrilling stories of days gone by into my ears, and the history inherent in the place would beckon me nearer. The snow would crunch beneath my feet. The old doors would creak open, and upon exploring the still old house, I would discover in particular one forgotten old room. Drawn to the back corner, I would find myself standing before the solid wood of a wardrobe. When confronted with a wardrobe, I ask you, what can one possibly do but to step inside? And sure enough, just as in my imaginings as a young child, the doors of the wardrobe would land me in a magical land. There, a lampost casts its orange glow on the snowy ground, animals talk, and everything holds one hundred times more meaning than it ever did before. Or rather, the deep meanings that were always there are suddenly more clear. Best of all, a lion too beautiful for words who is not safe but oh-so-Good nuzzles His head against my shoulder, His breath warm on my skin. I am home. Second best of all, I will never have to do busy-work assignments ever again. The end.