6th street

I used to dream about leaving so hard that I would float up out of the car and keep floating until everything was wishwashed and watercolored and indecipherable. I would dream of turning left instead of right and not stopping until I arrived somewhere else, some other state in some other time zone. I would think about how long it would take you to call once you realized I was gone. I would imagine never answering, rich with the power of knowing that I was suddenly the one who could carry on, untouched. You would get more and more agitated, fearful, desperate. At least, I hoped you would. I hoped you would call and call and realize how empty your life was without me filling it.

I knew this, at least, was fantasy.

I'm not sure what held me here, what twisted down through the fog and rooted me to the few square miles I existed in. Practicality, maybe. Fear, most likely. But have you ever reached a point where you look fear in the eyes and pass it by? Have you ever been so desperate you become numb to anything besides the need to feel something? At some point, I think, everyone who has desperate dreams puts their toe to the line and then jumps, willing to chance the rocks below in order to escape the mundanity above.

I imagine it is easier to quietly pack a bag, fill the tank, and drive away than to say goodbyes and give explanations. I dreamed of leaving my apartment as it was, couch and bed and towels, of just bringing what I couldn't leave behind and never giving it a second thought. I've heard it can be done. I think it's noble, not giving in to the need for people to mourn you. Just doing it alone.