I was planning to leave.
Not now, but soon enough. I saved money, I checked out travel books, I asked friends and family and travel writers. I reached, stretched out, until my fingers were nearly across the Atlantic.
I was going to be gone. Far enough away that I’d be more memory than woman, more reflection than flesh and bones but now…
Plans change. Dreams must be flexible or they’ll die, you know, so adjusting my course isn’t a sign of surrender – it’s the only way forward. I’m not giving up.
If I stay, if I run and find a little room of my own, I can create on my own terms. I can belong somewhere. I can feel at home. Maybe I’ll be able to breathe again. The air in my lungs is stale and muggy, made thick by time and tension. It’s made me so tired.
What else can I do, really, besides linger at the edge of a life I never imagined?
I suppose I could jump. Let the wind carry me if it must. Find somewhere new, seek the sun. Who knows, who knows, who knows.