Keys that wear

There once was a man named Roshan George,
Who in the absence of board and lodge,
Stayed in his two-bed flat alone,
And starved himself to skin and bone,

One day the desire for adventure bloomed,
And up and down the stairs he zoomed,
Mindless of moths and dragonflies,
Or of the seated old ladies' sighs.

But George did live on the twentieth floor,
And running up and down did make him sore,
So for the lift did he trudge,
Only to find that it would not budge.

One last burst from mortal blood,
Raised his feet from the mud,
And on and on from there he climbed,
Covered in sweat, and dirt and grime.

Hours passed and seconds died,
As for the next stage he tried,
And while his body began to dodder,
He read again and again, "out of order".

At long last he reached his floor,
And limped the few metres to his door,

And now he whimpered... a pitiful sound,
For his keys, it seemed... were still on the ground.

Someone once told me I needed to be more responsible, and aware of what's going on around me. Interestingly enough, I feel less in control than usual, plans I once wished for seem now doomed - My three year degree doesn't seem to be worth much, I need 4 years to take a post-graduate course. Now what? Another two years in India? Or is there still a chance? There'd better be.

But even if there isn't. I'm still okay, I really don't mind. I just really wanted to go abroad. Wish me luck. If there is one thing that I'm glad about, it's that I didn't actually leave my keys on the ground floor.