Deeply romantic notion, I know, which makes it terrifically out-of-character for me. But something about leaving for work one day, only to take the left onto the highway instead of the right to the office, just driving, settling where I am when my cash for gas and food runs out…it’s alluring.
There are vast, vast portions of this country—this planet—I’ve never seen. Even the parts I’ve seen, well, I haven’t seen much of them. So, then, the desire for escape. “Sorry, boss, but I won’t be in for the rest of my life” from a truckstop or an airport somewhere between where you’re leaving and where you’re headed.
I’m not saying this out of dissatisfaction with my job. I get a week’s vacation time after July 1, but it’s not the same—vacations end, and eventually you’re back at home, back doing whatever it was you needed to get away from. That’s…smaller than what I’m talking about. This is more just about walking away.
The other part of escape that holds an appeal is the ability to recreate oneself. In a place where no one knows you, all the identity you have is what you proclaim. An opportunity to do it over again, an opportunity to maybe, this time, get it right—or at least mess it up in a wholly new way.
If I left tomorrow, would you look for me?