It's a dismal morning, grey and cold, but without a hint of that fluttery whiteness that marked a school closing. My bed is soft and warm, a perfect cocoon of happiness, protection from the world of grey outside. But alas, all good things must come to an end.

A shrieking voice from downstairs. An internal battle. A little boy getting out of bed, filled with the foul mood of forced action. A day like any other day.

Hobbes walked me to the bus stop. He's a good friend. Unusually taciturn today, though.

I board to the bus. I find a seat at the back. Susie's not here. Unusual. She never misses school unless she's sick. She must be sick today. So I sit by myself. My peers sit around me, laughing at something not at all funny, their usually slack jaws bouncing with dopey guffaws.

I close my eyes. I try to fall into an imaginary world. Spiff beckons, and I am immersed. A vast alien landscape stretches before me, the red-rocked desert of so many adventures. But somehow I know it holds no joy for me today, no great exploit or heroic escape. I walk towards a dark pit in the ground. It seems endlessly deep and looks pitch black. I pick a small stone from the sandy ground, and drop it into the pit. I wait, but there is no sound. All right, then. I jump in headfirst.

The bus arrives. I go to school. How is this only first grade? I think. I feel like I have been doing this for years and years. And there are 11 and a half more. I am wearied to the bone. Arithmetic, pointless history – is there not more to life? To education?

I can't take any more class, so I fall once more into fantasy. Dinosaurs pervade this time, but they seem graver, less vicious. What? I ask my subconscious. Not even dinosaurs are fun anymore?

Moe pummels me at recess. I've gotten used to it, less rebellious. As he hits me, I catch myself thinking keep going. Keep going until I am laid out in the dust and gravel and ooze blood from my eyeballs. Then at least my last act will be to disgust. His every punch thickens my desire, strengthens it, adding kindling to the desperate fire in my heart that wants it all to end.

I feel old and out of time. Six years? Is that it? Is that how long I've been alive? I feel my heartbeat. Thump thump. Two thumps, twice a second, for six years. If I knew arithmetic I might know how many that was. But it seems far too few. How long have I been six?

Time shifts like sand, and I am home again. Hobbes waits for me by the door, and as soon as I enter the house I am beset with motherly small talk and chores to do. I do them without protest, to her surprise.

Trapped. That's what I am here. Trapped by school and home and my own mind.

"Let's go for a walk, Hobbes." I say. I dig out the old red wagon from the musty garage and let it trail behind me as my tiger and I jaunt to the familiar woods of my youth. A forest so full of life this summer now is dead and silent, the barren branches of trees like the spears of a skeletal host.

"Do you ever think about death, Hobbes?"

He doesn't answer, and I remember that my best friend is a stuffed animal.

"I do," I continue, "All the time."

The sack of stuffing continues to be silent.

"My life is played out, I feel. Everything of interest is already past. And I am old, Hobbes. Older than you know, or even I know. My life is a piece of paper already filled with words and drawing. I crave blankness. I crave possibility."

I set the feeble imitation of a tiger in the wagon and follow it with the feeble imitation of a boy. Together we slowly roll down the hill, gradually picking up speed.

"I need a new landscape, Hobbes. This one, imagined ones, are not enough for me anymore. It's time. I head for the undiscovered country."

We are careening now, and the edge of a cliff approaches dead ahead.

"It's a magical world, Hobbes ol' buddy." I say, as we plunge into the abyss, "Let's go exploring."