Runaway

I chose the train. It wasn't the best option, monetarily. I chose the train because I thought it would be the best way to start what's supposed to be a completely new life. I knew it was silly of me. Childish. It probably seemed as if I wanted to live in a story I had read in a book or seen in a film. I wanted my own story. My own film. Then again I could have saved myself a hundred bucks and a couple of hours, but it wouldn't have had that feeling I was looking for. That feeling of land passing beneath my feet, of the distance between myself and the life I was trying to escape growing bigger by the minute. I needed that feeling.

I took a backpack. That was it. What if it didn't work out? What if this adventure I so desperately wanted rejected me? If I failed I would have to go back. Back to my old life and all of it's disappointments. So instead of lugging every unnecessary piece of my life along with me, I decided I would send for my things at a later date. It was responsible, plus it had such a great ring to it. "Send for my things…", it sounded so yacht-sailing, casual bourgeoisie. That couldn't be farther from the truth, but perception can always overshadow what hides beneath the surface. The truth was, I was scared.