I've been playing around in my writing with the idea of the ostrich with her head in the sand. As if the routines to which we are all chained is the sand, causing us to bend down, expose our asses, and bury our heads under them. We become automatons to those routines.

Every now and then, I pull my head out of the sand and sniff the atmosphere and realize that the other world is much less gritty....and that my back feels much nicer when it is straight against the wind.