I had this badass plan of writing off the terrible 2010-2011 school year and embarking on a journey across the states with a friend of a friend. We had planned to jet off in May, but as May came, I realized how unrealistic the plan was. Two girls with greyhound bus passes wasn't the kind of adventure I was looking for - if anything, it was a recipe for theft, danger, maybe even a kidnap [hah, this could be a plot for the next preteen thriller novel].
What was I thinking?
Hmm, well I was thinking, or at least hoping for some sort of escape. An escape from the worst months of my life. The grey spell I was under kept me in some sort of paralysis, fuck, I could barely get out of bed some days. The seduction of this trip was like a drug.
I filled my head with scenes of camping in the canyons and sipping beers at the dive bars we would frequent in the midwest. We would bounce from couch host to couch host and use up the lasts of my dwindling bank account.
Yes, I was going to go on this Alexander Supertramp of a trip.
But,
then it dawned on me, I had a failed course, a deceased friend, a laughable bank account, and a mess of a life; I could not just run away from it all. Oh, how I wish I was that renegade who could healthily sublimate everything and jet off with a backpack, but boy am I glad reality came knocking at my door. I was not Jack Kerouac and I was not ready to leave.
I stayed put for the summer.
I made new friendships, I reversed my academic transgressions, I danced in the Manchester hippie fest, I went to New York City for the first time, and
I fell in love.
Sometimes we have to put our fantastical dreams on hold to take a breath and to let ourselves heal.
The canyons will be there for me when I'm ready, and it will be nothing short of a sublime moment of peace and happiness.
