You leave for the countryside to write and find yourself again, but then your phone connects to the cell towers at the wrong time and you get a text from the boy you kissed when you turned nineteen. He still punches through when you’re on one bar and your service keeps flicking back and forth from SOS. The sun is setting a dark orange (the kind of heated glow you only expect in the outback), and there’s smoke from controlled fires that are obstructing the sky and giving you nausea. There’s something wrong, and escaping it isn’t as easy as leaving the city. You put your head underwater to drown out the noise but shivers are getting to your teeth and cramps are pulling your muscles in strange places. Nothing physical will fix this. Ennui follows you around and you try to attach feeling to the last guy who lit up your phone. This morning’s twitter feed lined up three tweets in a row, telling you that he won’t save you. You don’t listen. Don’t die kneeling, Ben said. You walk away from the fight anyway and surrender yourself to mediocrity. It’s the wrong decision. You lost all your childish joy somewhere down the line and fell into the attitude of a 42-year-old divorcee. There’s no will to power; no will to fight. You don’t deserve better than this. Leaving the state doesn’t get you any farther from your problems. 

Your identity is unique to you, and there is something particularly human in that. You get to know yourself better than anyone else ever will. It’s like your own little corner of the universe, and you can twist and turn it as much as you want. Cut your bangs and drive west; lose your friends and gain some more; quit your job and throw oil at a Van Gogh. That’s the morsel of freedom that life has given you. I’m turning around and claiming this as a bittersweet revelation. Separation isn’t all bad. As much as I’m a victim to limerence, I can’t honestly say I want to lose myself because I gave everything to the wrong person.

by john isaacs