You spend years shoving the wretched, old wardrobe away from the door.
The way is free.
Panting, gasping, you charge out the exit filled with stupid hope of life outside…
And break your nose on a freaking baobab tree.
Apparently, ‘life outside’ has moved on during your years of wardrobe-wrestling. Your front stoop now belongs to a baobab trunk, your exit blocked all over again.
Anxiety, my friends, stinks… and sometimes requires a hatchet.