There is a glassy quality to leaving, moreso to recognizing it’s time to leave. You walk around the same place you’ve been walking and see yourself standing in an alley in a panicked call to a friend two timezones over. It’s winter then, dark and grim, and you have pulled the rug out from under yourself. She tells you it is okay for three hours.
Then it is now and you have to get on a plane. It is going somewhere you have never been.
We go up, we go down.
When you are on the ground it comes back: the anxiety, the sense of the wrongness of being idle, of not knowing where to go or what to do, money trickling away in more than usual daily entropy. But everything is new and there’s nothing for it to hook on to. You clean leaked lotion off your clothes. Familiar NPR voices are on the cheap Radio Shack radio. It is the same world.
We go down, we go up.