Here I am at home, on an MC, away from work. I’m settling on my applications for university, and reading The Glass Menagerie.

Two years. What Spartan endurance Tom must have had to work in that warehouse for as long as he did, when I, only at the ten-month mark, feel like I cannot bear it anymore. My superior (I hate that word, in what aspect are these insipid bosses superior to me?) reacted quite grumpily to my decision to report sick, and now I feel torn, torn between the knowledge that such an impression will not sit well for the next two years, and the burning desire to have no need for that impression at all.

What an exciting life an AWOL fugitive must lead. To defy the institution that has locked up robust young men at the peak of their years, and transformed them into nothing but MC haggling desperados.

I am angry that no one believes my MCs, and have to weave a web of lies, deceit, and false sympathy before they do not question its integrity. We all fall sick, how is it that the big dumb blokes get away with it? Is it because, in being bigger, they invoke more respect? More faith in their diligence? So is it such that I, skinny and not quite well-built, of an agile mind and glib tongue, am unable to be actually productive in the workshop, and hence am undeserving of my MC?

They value lumbering obedience over wit and intelligence. A tank is after all, more important than a soldier.

All I talk about now is the army, and the psychological impact this foul conscription has caused. I take myself far too seriously, which is a bad sign. I devoured The Glass Menagerie in a day – I confess that I am rather deprived of such material in camp.

All this while I sit here and create my future, plan for it, pay attention to every detail, delighting in the fantasy. It is no different from Silas Marner, counting his gold, for I too am paying attention to the hard outlines of letters, emails, and petty applications. I count them, go through them again and again, and vet my emails twice over. These little things are the light at the end of the tunnel, they sustain hope, yet all I seem to be doing is sustaining hope for the sake of sustaining hope. I try desperately to evade the truth, that I actually get to go home everyday, that I have the whole weekend to myself, that Cambridge is not the only place where I can live out my dreams.

There is time now yet. Time now to create things in the present. I need only summon the strength and focus to do so –

But I am such a lazy fellow.