The Shell

         Call me mad. But if I could speak to walnut, we would have much to discuss. "We have a lot in common" I would remark. "All my life I feel as if I have been living in a shell, just as you do now. I wish someone would come along and crack me open; I don't have the strength to break though. Yes, we are very alike, you and I."
         For all you know of me, I could be a completely different person underneath this shell. But that person is locked away, bound and gagged in some deep, dark corner of my psyche. On the outside, I'm happy, nonchalant, and even blissful. Not a care in the world and not a problem in my life. Just like everyone, I smile, I joke, and I play nice. But there are those few that I have longed to run with. Those few who have no shell, who wear their heart on their sleeve. The wild ones who roam the barrens while I trudge down the beaten path. If you do know me, who I am, what I do, then you may be surprised to know the real me.
         You may just think it to be teenage rebellion. In fact, maybe it is. But I want to do so much more than I do now. I want to smell the open air, explore the unexplored. I want to swim in lust. I want to drink from a cup of vodka and maternal tears. I want to do all of this. But I can't. I have this damn shell enveloping me. What's the cause of my inhibition? Is it parental pressure? A delusion of superiority? Maybe I just don't have what it takes to belong to the wild ones. But I'll sure as hell try. Some day I'll be free from pressure, suspicion, and regulation. And on that day, when they ride by on their metal steeds, drinking alcohol and breathing hellfire, I'll wave at them. I'll ask to be a part of them. And if they refuse, to hell with them. I'll become a wild one too rebellious and shameful for their liking. All the world will watch as I break free from my shell.