At a certain point in life, man’s spirit finds itself overcome by a drive for adventure. It beckons him to look outward. To escape his hometown, to embrace life beyond the known world.
Perhaps travelling is a means of satisfying that drive. Europe. Asia. Australia. Faraway lands. No, he’s done that.
To hell with this town.
Perhaps he should move away. A change of scenery. New people. New life. He need not settle. No, he’s done that too.
To hell with this town. To hell with the road.
No, this year, this particular man is called to turn inward. He spent so much of his life in different corners of the world. In constant motion. He wishes to return home.
To hell with this town. To hell with the road. To hell with airports, with trains, buses, automobiles. To hell with constant motion. Something permanent. Something real.
The spirited man may find himself in a glass apartment, having neither worked for it nor earned for it. In silence, he listens for one word after the next. The words, though sparse, point eastward like a malfunctioning compass. His people reside in the east, past the Rockies. Highway 1, east. Wild rose country.
Yet he returns to find his streets empty, pretending. Fickle and temporary. A palimpsest, a noose. In these parts, he longs for Pacific starlight.
Thank God for the girl. Thank God for Vanderlyle. Thank God for North America. It’s all been forgiven. Has it?
To hell with this town. To hell with the compass. He returns west, and the cycle begins again.
What life feels like when it’s falling apart is a cold northwestern forest, five hours from the coast and five hours from the prairies, where nowhere feels like home, and where there are no more stories to tell.
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