The day is dreary. The blowing winds have escalated the constant rain to a whole new level. Where once I may have considered venturing outside, now all I wish to do is burrow under the covers with my slew of half-finished books. There are more days than not of seeking warmth under the covers in this new city.

I am not just escaping the weather, but I am hiding from the responsibility. The responsibility of picking up the 30 outfits I tried on this morning, the responsibility of doing the dishes before the food sticks, and the responsibility of picking up the pine needles from my dead Christmas tree. I am hiding from the growing mass of e-mails I must respond to, the phone calls I must return, and the resumes I must send out.

I choose instead to paint all of my nails, play Jeopardy, banter with the cat, find recipes for a dinner I won’t get around to making, and research local events that I won’t get around to attending. On a day like this, writing out all of my sticky-note to-do lists seems unsatisfying. Most of it seems unsatisfying. And why. And why. And how.

And so. I choose to become a victim of these dreary days, allowing my thoughts to wander freely among the fictitious lives of others and of a life I will one day lead. I lose myself in the inner streets of Chicago, in the brothels of India, to worlds full of the diverse and unfamiliar. On these dreary days, I become consumed by foreign smells and sounds. I learn new ways of viewing the world. I learn new ways of expressing my thoughts. I learn new ways to express my anger. I burrow myself deeper into the words and language. I allow it to swim freely through me.

There will be a day when I make more than just enough to get by. When my days will be filled with so much responsibility I will want to escape back into these dreary days. Until then, however, I relish these days under the covers. I encourage the rain, smile at the wind, and pull my slew of half-finished books a little closer.