Mr. Beetle

There's a beetle at my window. Its shell of a body slamming itself against the foggy glass. The clock screams 3:40, in about 10 minutes my time will be up, and I will have to trudge my way to work. God I wish I were that beetle at my window. He's just searching for a way out, being teased by the light of the sun and the silent wind blowing just out of reach. But his life is so simple, there is nothing entering his mind but exiting this prison he has found himself in. There is no one for him to please, he just wants to fly into the breeze and be carried off into the unknown world.

I, on the other had, will find my own prison, one of my choice. Where the constant beeping and worry of doing something horribly wrong haunts me.

God I wish I was that beetle.