I cuddle up under the warm blanket, engulfed in the darkness of a hot closet called room. The street lights creeping in through
the creaks of the closed window, the moonlight trying to pierce into the darkness, the cacophony of the still night – all dance Oaround me, awaiting my permission to get alongside me, under my blanket.
This blanket, of anxiety, uncertainty, insecurity, has kept me warm long enough. It slowly tightens around me, its warmth now increasing my pulse and scratching and itching my skin. Gradually, a yearning ignites. A yearning to get away, from the
darkness, the claustrophobic enclosure, the dreariness of the world. I suddenly crave for an escape, an escape to somewhere
surpassing eternity, to somewhere where I’d belong.
Can I escape? Will I be able to leave behind the worldliness I’ve lived on for years now? Is there something beyond eternity? Is
there an escape from the crushing weight of life? Is there a place to escape to, from life?
“Acceptance” comes in as an answer to such forbearance. Life can never be escaped, it can only be accepted and lived on. If it
was possible to escape it, Keats would have succeeded in escaping into the Nightingale’s world and not end his poetry on the notes of acceptance of the ‘fret and fever’ of life. If he could not, can ever I?