It’s something we threaten when we are children. Usually in a childish fit of pique because we’ve been denied something. Perhaps we even packed a bag, made it to the end of the block. But for most of us, it was never a serious threat.
At some point, as we age, the desire to run away is supposed to dissipate. Except, of late, the desire to run away is all I think about. Each time I get into my car or step into an airport, I am overwhelmed by the need to disappear.
I don’t know where I would go, who I would become. I suppose that is part of the allure, the ability to recreate myself. For once, not be the responsible one, the one to whom all of the decisions fall. To simply be.
Of course, I’ll never do it. I’ll get on the scheduled flight, turn left into my nice, safe neighborhood, and pull into my garage. I’ll kiss my family hello, smile as if I’ve not had these thoughts, push them away and tell myself I’m being silly.
But in the deep, dark of the night, when I’m once again staring at the ceiling, not sleeping, the desire to return. And each time, it gets just a bit harder to push it away.