she wanted to know about my purpose. how, she implored, had i found it so young? in her world, purpose was a thing you found after you’d done a few years’ sensible work, maybe some careful mapping out. she was a scheduler, a planner, and she didn’t understand my methods – or my madness.
i crafted myself in a persona i grew to dislike, so i broke the mold and hunted out new tropes to apply to myself. it was a challenge, so i decided to contain it by upping sticks and going.
i told her about the stories planned, the actions needed to carry them out: she listened, looking surprised, and wondered at my daring. i smiled, and told her there was no daring in seeking adventure; it was simply the way my brain was built. i’ve always been the sort to chase something new, i confessed over my second coffee (said it like it was a secret only she could know). always the sort to shatter the present illusion of my life and go.
i told her how i planned adventures, but only the unplanned variety: the kind where your car breaks down and you don’t speak the language; the kind where you throw everything you’ve worked for aside and run off without money, living as beautifully as possible on the largest ways you can. told her about how it feels to be the only constant in an ever-changing scenescape, until you yourself change and then nothing in your world is alike.
i told her about years roaming, about months spent on menial money-earning tasks and all the scrapes that ensued, and the eventual thought of coming back to a plain life.
she listened and waited for my coming-home story –
i forgot to come back though.