Echo

How I miss last year's summer and its spontaneity. The same question remains in utter darkness, I wonder, when I will ever be able to get out of this bubble I call home. I sit here, just like I did the last, and the time before the last, and before the time before the last, asking myself the same old question.

Here come the tears and the feelings I thought I've grown out of. The familiarity of it all scares me and I wonder if this is some sort of annual meltdown that I'll always feel.

I just wish I could be away from here and living a life different from what I call my life.
I need to get out of here.

And how long will I be telling myself this?

Where is the answer to this?

A one way ticket out of here, please.