“I’m going to run away,”
were words that I used to say a lot as a kid.
the concept was pretty solid:
step 1: attempt to slam bedroom door.
step 2: get bedroom door stuck on carpet, preventing a satisfying slam.
step 3: pack backpack.
step 4: realize that backpack will not fit entire zoo of stuffed animals.
step 5: admit defeat, cry, decide that it is easier to hide in the closet or under the bed for hours than follow through with my threat.
Had I gotten past my front door I would have realized that I’d be walking at least a mile and a half before even making it out of my development. Thanks, suburbia.
In high school I was still trying to run away. This was when I realized the limitations of my town, which constrained me to sleepy residential roads framed by county roads packed with cars. This was when I spent a lot of time in the woods, or out on the dock, or just sitting in my driveway.
Reading journal entries from that time make me yearn to go back and hold that girl’s hand, tell her that in ten, twelve years she’ll be sitting on her couch in Berkeley, windows open, sunlight and light flower smells wafting in, writing this entry and feeling okay. Or, dare I say it… good.
Everyone’s trying to run away. And it’s so easy to push away from a life you don’t want without knowing what you’re running towards.
But things are, despite it all, always getting better. There’s no need to go anywhere; just ride it out right where you lie.