Holiday. I wish this was a holiday. The excitement of getting away, of exploring somewhere new, of doing those things with you. But that’s not what this is. I don’t feel excited, just anxious. I’m not happy about going, I’m sad at leaving you. More than that, it’s despair. Despair that my reasons for going don’t feel right anymore, that there isn’t value in this. It’s just heartache and disappointment.
I know you don’t want me to go either, so why am I? Pride? The misplaced belief that, ultimately, everything will come together? Well that can’t always happen. I’ve been lucky in life, mostly with you, but that luck has to run out. Maybe this is the day it does.
It’s only a few days I know, but sometimes that doesn’t matter. Sometimes an hour means more than a year.
I’m on the plane anyway, but where am I going?
The Write Site 