“I need to escape”, I tell myself one morning after a restless night with little or nosleep. . I decide that the best way to escape the sounds and images of my basement roomis to clear my head with a walk. As soon as I close the front door, I am confronted withmore gloom in my townhouse complex, the stark, dull brown buildings, with matchingfences. They act as a wall protecting, or in my case, trapping the inhabitants, many of who are seniors who consider a late night to be 9:00 p.m., from the outside world. I picture myself as a character from the Great Escape as I stealthily slip unnoticed throughthe courtyard or in my imagination the POW prison yard and quietly open the gateleading the street. I am careful not to let the door slam, just in case one of the residents isnapping.On the street, the cars slowly drive by, as if patrolling the neighborhood for people that don’t fit in. For no reason, I feel judged and exposed. Although I pretend their glares don’t faze me, I really feel oppressed. I dread being seen as abnormal. I choke onthe exhaust of a passing giant SUV, that holds one person only, a driver, who has likelydropped off her child at school. I imagine my pores absorbing the pollution’s poisonousgases. I need to get away.In my bleakness, I see everything in the negative. The buildings are tall, facelessand hover over me. I feel small, inadequate, and unworthy. Behind them I see another restraining wall; this one consists of Cypress, Seymour and Grouse. There is no escape.11
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