Inside of Me

There's a resistance inside of me. A restless concoction of desire for something more than average. I don't always live in ways that correspond with this nature that resides within. Sometimes, I bow to slothfulness and submit to the ho-hum. That's why I read. I read books about other places and interesting people in the hope that their adventures and experiences will somehow be mine if I just press my eyes shut and envision it hard enough. An image will strike me, cause me to pause, and I slip away from here for a few seconds.
For a few seconds, I am no longer seated on the brick stoop of my parent's wood stove, but I'm bumping along a precarious stretch of steep mountain road in Pakistan. For a few seconds, the warmth on my back becomes the sultry heat of the Santa Cruz sierra. In a moment, the night obscures my movements as I make my way to a barely lit cave and a gathering of secret Jesus loyalists. In a flash, I land in Iraq and see the shards of glass protruding from a charred taxi as blood streams down the street and pools in the gutter. Why can't I resign myself to the ordinary and for what purpose am I constantly dogged by the mystique and misery of this world?
Although a new thing springs up, I have yet to perceive it.