Most times... most times it is simply nauseating. In the wake of the rain, the hesitant sway of the trees with the force of the wind’s woeful howl, we are desperate for a way out. Where once there was no rain, now there is an abundance... an angry one at that, trying to make for all the time lost… all the earth and plants left unquenched.
But now it’s too late. Leaves are browning and orange-ing and red-ing all around me, trees are left bare and scowling, plagued with the notion that all over again, their branches heavily laden with snow, they will have to brave the biting cold… the uneasy force of a Chicago winter, the frost and the lack of sun… all serving as reminders that we have no control over this life... that we are all prisoners to nature, and life... that there is no hope of us ever overcoming this reality. 
Maybe this is the real reason for pollution. Maybe subconsciously, we are like the evil, scorned lover, kicking our other halves while they sleep, much too afraid to do it while he or she is at full attention. So a puff of smoke here, some industrial waste there... that’ll square us away. Who are these Greenpeace idiots warning us to love our world? When has it ever been ours? Who was the moron who told them that? We are at the mercy of the elements, clawing our way out from under mountains of snow, or debris form tornadoes, hands water-logged from hurricanes. Who is abusing whom? Surely, we deserve to get a lick in? Most times... most time it is simply nauseating. I want to free myself. I feel trapped. 
But how do you escape some strange, tragic fate, locking you underneath your own instability, simply because you cannot identify where the trouble is coming from? How does one escape what one is not sure one is trapped within? Does one escape? And why even are we so keen on the very idea of escape itself? Whoever said that being set free was the best option? How the fuck do we expect to handle ourselves alone? Inside this mind is a sleuth of nightmares, of frightening things... memories, fears. Inside this mind is my own self-destruction, building itself up and waiting for the moment when I am emotionally weakest to strike, and fall upon me, forcing me into a sordid kind of catatonic despair, unable to move or speak... just moaning with the agony of too much life and experience. Then maybe foolishly, I’ll cry out for help and wait for someone to hear me. Then inevitably, no one will, and I will be stuck here, enslaved within myself forever, though not quite sure if I am, and therefore, moronically, unable to find a way out. Jesus.
