I’m prepping for an exodus, though I know not where. Here’s the thing, my twenties were a whirlwind. This was Montana via Missouri via Western Europe via California via Israel via Florida via California via Colorado via Montana. I enjoyed the travel, but the era was self-torture: each and every via fueled by some newly-discovered form of neurosis—bad brain, as my dear old brother calls it.
I had no anchor points—no girl, no career, no kids—and being in the latter half of my twenties, I was feeling less a loser and more a failure. Maybe I was on the wrong path, migrating for the wrong reasons. Maybe I’d kept moving if only to keep from killing myself.
Everything changed three years ago when I found writing, moved home, and became a recluse. I stabilized, became comfortable, no longer fretting over finances, and the dust settled. I settled. And that’s why I’m leaving.
I’ve become complacent. And as much as I’ve loved the last few years, with my family, in the mountains, with a functioning brain, I know that if I keep on this path that is all I'll become—complacent. Therefore, in a couple weeks, I’m quitting the family business. This has surprisingly led to a boost in my ego because, while training my replacement (my sister-in-law), I’m realizing my job is a little more complicated and specialized than once thought. Regardless, I'll then be spending the month of October in New York City, subletting and hoping to read, write, reconnect with important friends, and engage with the literary culture. This will be a test if I want to move there. (If you’re in the area or have artistic friends that are, hit me up.) Beyond that I’m thinking of becoming a desert rat, finding a trailer in southern Utah and connecting with Abbey country…or hunkering down in my parents' newly purchased cabin and working on a novel…or applying for jobs with the National Park Service…or applying for creative writing MFA programs again. What’s beautiful is that possibilities are feeling possible again. I’m reawakening to the old spirit of travel that once fueled me, this time without the bad brain. Only the road. A pen. Some paper.