I wonder what it is I’m running from, if anything.
When younger, it was parents, school, self-disappointment, the rural, freeways. Then whatever was objectionable and squelching from the last job.
I enjoyed the rented rooms, walking streets alone, the slow time of writing letters on paper. I was engaged in appropriate suffering.
Things and I are different now. What I want in the external world comes from different motivation, leads to different ends. Sometimes you have to go there to be here, and sometimes you don’t.