An Escapist Perspective

I've never been one to think that we should run from our problems. This philosophy was not so helpful when I had to live with my mother in Memphis. My mother was an abusive junkie who sucked the quality from my life and the happiness from my heart like some strange, pain-inducing sponge.

However, I found it extremely therapeutic to draw. Though, it goes much deeper than simply artistry. I had linked together my drawings into one complex, universal body. It was much deeper than a simple drawing could be.

This was my initial encounter with the very concept that allowed me to push through a multitude of issues. This concept, escapism, is one I believe can be beneficial not only to me, but to anyone else. I have gratuitous psychological issues I cannot convey to other individuals through any means. I suffer these unaudited plagues alone.

However, I once again found escapism to be one of the most beneficial treatments. In the summer of 2013, I began work on a science fiction universe more expansive than most of my previous ones. Stygian Boding, as it is so aptly titled, is one of my favorite settings in which I have crafted. I only update it when under immense stress or pressure, or when feeling terrible, and I found that to be the best medicine for a large amount of my issues.

I can easily say that escapism how allowed me to eliminate large portions of stress and anxiety. I am not so sure why escapism helps so well with the mortal issues we face here on Earth-- perhaps it has something to do with the fact that we can lose ourselves in worlds much more emotionally or mentally evoking and interesting than our own mediocre existences.

I am not the only one who holds this philosophy true. Out of countless examples, I choose to tell you of my friend, Dan. Dan is a man who, despite his overbearing intellect and thought-provoking ideas, has been persecuted and has suffered through more than most will ever experience. He also utilized escapism as a tool in which he could use to deal with the issues that he had to deal with.

Even outside of Dan, there are countless others you could talk to, as to confirm the validity of this philosophical thought. Still, this is about my thought, and I can, without a doubt in mind, confirm my believes on escapism. Though self-apparent, for any have yet to grasp the overall, reaching purpose of this essay, it is simple, as the philosophy actually is. Despite modern treatment and medicine, I believe that one of the best ways to alleviate stress, anxiety, and a marjoram of other negatively connoted  dispositions, escapism is a universal tool that any can utilize.

Spinach Stuffed Chicken

Ingredients:
Chicken Breasts
1 Stick Of Butter
3 Cans Of Spinach
Toothpicks


Preparation:

In a frying pan, melt the butter. Afterwards, place in the spinach and varying seasonings as you may wish. Leave it to fry. Be careful to stir it constantly so it doesn't burn or begin to stick to the frying pan. Continue to fry for 15 minutes. Afterwards, stop, and take the spinach out.

The morning was cold, as always. In the large, lofty apartment, I could hear everyone rushing around and the constantly shuffling of feet. Those who weren't doing anything were having 'pleasant' conversation. Everyone else, however, had a plethora of duties to attend to. My grandmother, however, seemed to be the calmest person on earth. She stood over the stove, paying no mind to the conversations of children and grandchildren, nor to the busily noise of everyone else, that which is akin to a large city on a busy morning. Instead, she stood over her stove, frying spinach. She had took the chicken out to defrost, and it had neared the end of it's journey.

Next, as the spinach completes and is removed, preheat the oven. Take out the(hopefully) defrosted chicken breasts, and pound them out flat. Once flattened, take your spinach, and place it atop the flattened poultry. Then, fold the chicken breasts over the chicken. In order to get the chicken to stay, use toothpicks to impale it and hold it together.  Roll chicken in breading, and as the oven had been preheated, place the chicken in the oven. Leave to bake for 45 minutes.

I can still recall, as everyone scrambled about, desperate to finish their servitude workload, my grandmother, more tranquil than a Buddhist monk, conjuring some sort of unearthly sense of serenity around her in a mystic aura, pounding away at the chicken breasts. It sounded something like that of a carpenter pounding nails into a plank of wood. Despite the loud, smashing noise, she still seemed calmer than anyone in her apartment. I had been sat on the couch, watching television. Beside me was my cousin Josh, and my step-cousin, Peyton. I also had to talk to the various family members that, honestly, I don't even remember. They all seemed to have the same, mass-produced, canned dialog. The most common was, "How was school?" One voice I've never forgotten was my mothers; I can't even remember her face. Though she may be gone, her voice lingers on in the canals of my consciousness, just to haunt me.

Once it is baked, take the chicken out. Put a thermometer in to check if done. If not done, place back on for another 15 minutes, or until finished. If finished, however, take it out, and for ten minutes, leave it out to cool. Once cooled, feel free to serve. Or feel free to keep it all to yourself. Whichever one suits you more.

One of the most prevalent memories of mine, even to this day, is being sat in my grandmother's living room, eating spinach stuffed chicken and having a long, at times dreary, conversation with the shipload of family members. It seemed that if they even had small ties with my family, they were free to join the festival, and most of them did. I still find it hard to believe that her apartment could contain so many people. Now, those days seem like a surreal dream of winter. The most magical quality is the blurry filter my mind seems to place on every scene. It seems like those days won't ever come back, or couldn't have even existed over time-- it almost feels like an analogy for the gradual breakdown of the human body and mind over time, and any good, or even decent, times will eventually fade. In the end, we're all destined to die in some way, often without any chance to change our fate. The worst part, however, is knowing that you lived a meaningless, mediocre existence, only to die and lose the memories of everything you've ever done, and lose your consciousness. Now, forever, you're stuck in a black void, in a dream-like state, devoid of any intelligence or consciousness, doomed to forever drift in nothingness for eternity, without even the knowledge you are there, or sentience to feel anything about it. I shall meet a similar ending, as shall we all. However, sometimes it is dutifully noted that the journey is more important than the destination. This year, I shall eat the same spinach stuff chicken, and at first, I will enjoy it. However, after contemplating everything, it will only bring me to back thoughts of my eventually demise, and the end of my coming consciousness. I will be dutifully reminded of my frail body and my limited time on this earth. I understand that my time will come rather soon, as 50, 60, 70, or even 80 years isn't even a fraction of a second when compared to the age of the universe. I am reminded of my eventually demise by the majority of concepts and items. That includes the ones that bring me happiness or pleasure at first. My grandmother's spinach stuffed chicken is one such thing that reminds me that I will be gone one day, and will be forgotten by everyone. Until then, I shall continue to live, year by year, celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas, with those who choose to live near me, and the food we make, together.

Who am I?