Running Away

There are times when just running away and disappearing from your life is an all too real temptation. This is semi-fictional: the account is made-up but the feelings behind it are genuine.

I remember I was sitting out on the porch one late afternoon watching the life of an uncommonly heavy storm play out. It was one of those storms—you know, like the ones in the autumn where it just rains and rains. I was on my own at the time; everyone else was in the house busy with preparing for some gathering. But this was fine as I was enjoying the temporary solitude. At first I wasn't thinking about anything much. The storm was mesmerising in itself, transfixing me with the pattering of the rain, the rumbling of the thunder. In a way watching this deluge was the most cathartic thing I could ever think of.

But then I started to reflect, which is never a good sign. I came to realise that there was a strange dichotomy in the storm and the life within the house behind me. Out in the storm things seemed to be much simpler. There was fluidity and dynamics to the storm's life; nothing was constrained and events were always in flux. In essence, a type of freedom was inherent in it. The life in the house—my life—was a leaden weight on my chest. I had been so restless then. A million million thoughts and worries ran marathons in my head and there was no end to them. And I think the crux of the problem was that I couldn't figure out how to make things better because I didn't know what was wrong; not really, anyway. It just seemed that I was a growing ever larger in a cage that was getting ever smaller, and maybe this had been of my own making or maybe it hadn't. What was certain was that the pacing and the restlessness was spreading me thin.

I eventually found myself fantasising about just getting up from my chair on the porch and just walking out into the storm and not coming back—at least not for a while. I wanted to just walk and walk, smell the rain, feel the water fall on me. There was something out in the distance that I was searching for; I wanted to find it, whatever it was. I had been waiting for something, or nothing—I don't think there was a difference, not one that mattered: I simply was not whole and badly needed to be. How easy it would have been to do it, to just leave. I felt in every part of me that my life was meant for more and how I hungered for it. It would have been completely irresponsible to have just left, yes, but the idea was undeniably tempting.

That was some time ago. Where do I stand now? I'm still looking out into the storm. I'm still looking for something (nothing). There is a peace that is out there I have yet to reach. The only difference between that autumn stormy afternoon and now is that I am much less afraid of the thought of running away.