alright that’s not true:

i’m ready to run.

it’s been way too long since i’ve packed up basic necessities of what i own and zipped it up, slung it over my shoulder, walked away. i hate the grey basic skyline here, the low hum of suburban mediocrity, that gradual, invisible decline, that passive baseline acceptance.

i don’t wear shoes, i wear sunglasses, i wear strangers. where’s the rain, the pours on bare skin? where’s the sugar mashed into the bottom of the glass, the last sip that slips into a low strum buzz. i miss the frenzied spin of the raw world, i miss anonymity and lying about my name; to be folded, unfolding. you can lose yourself in change, empty into your pockets, open your hands and the currency speaks back you. there is no routine grocery store trip, no schedule, no monotonous, dissonant repetitious future spread out like a banquet. 18 variations of meatloaf.

i miss you, foreign soil. i miss you, hazy bar conversation, hand-rolled cigarettes, thieves and travelers, the unsatisfied, the untethered, the faces i’ve seen once and never again. i miss the sun’s heat, cobblestone streets, cities made out of stone and not plastic, city streets paved before america even split cells. i hate this metallic cold fog, i hate the dust accumulating on everything i own, i hate this job i hate, i hate that i hate.

i can’t help that the world is swinging hard and i swing back. i can’t help that i fear the calm-quiet; that i sharpen an ax when my feet start growing roots. i can’t help it that i want to kidnap everything i love and run.

edit: I’m not saying I want to leave my loves, or my life, but boy do i love to leave.