Running Away

I remember once, when I was about six or seven, gathering a little backpack of supplies and taking off down the street. I was going to run away. I'm sure I had my reasons, and I'm sure they were completely valid in my young mind. I believe I made it about four houses down before I sat on the curb and wondered how life would be if I abandoned my family. Would I join the circus, as you tend to believe all runaways do at that age? I couldn't see myself as the circus type. After swallowing my pride, I shuffled back home. I don't think anyone even noticed my attempt to change my life forever, which possibly made it worse.

Now I'm starting to wonder if the urge to run away ever leaves us. Today I've found myself wanting to be that seven year old again. Gather up a little suitcase with the necessary supplies, drive myself to the airport, and just disappear somewhere into the wild blue yonder. Would anyone notice this time? Would someone come and see my apartment, left just as if I had been fully intending to come home that night, to do the dishes and make my bed? I kind of love the image of my apartment being frozen in time that way. Of imagining people wondering where I'd gone to...if I'd finally gone to join the circus. The unfortunate thing is that at seven years old I fully believed I could run away and join this imaginary circus, the thing that really stopped me was a lack of desire to do so. Now at twenty-six, I know there isn't a circus with a vacancy just waiting for me. I know I have bills to pay...a job people expect me to show up for...cats that need taken care of. I can't just fly off on a foreign adventure. I need money. I need a passport. I need a place to stay. I wish I was seven again and didn't even consider those things...I'd just shoulder my backpack and start walking. Maybe this time I'd make it further than four houses down the road...