Flight
For the past several weeks I have been consumed by thoughts of disappearance.
I pore over lists of instructional books about how to obtain false identification and avoid the pesky remnants of a former life. I read every review, and think about which ones I should buy. None of the readers have actually used the books, but they all say that true flight requires a great deal of money. They mention the importance of a solitary life and claim that most people would grow lonely. I wouldn’t. I would be very happy to spend the rest of my life with little more than my pet rabbit for company, spending my free time doing nothing but reading, writing, and drawing.
As more and more schisms appear in my life, I realize how little of my happiness involves the company of others and how much of my misery is caused, at least in part, by my supposed nearest and dearest. The idea of leaving it all behind, of abandoning everything, and living a secret, solitary existence is almost painfully appealing. I don’t like it here, I’m sure that almost anywhere else would be better, at least for a while.
There are two things preventing me from fleeing the city and re-establishing myself somewhere else with a new name and new identity. The first is simple and tangible: I do not have the money required to fund a brand new life. Without government intervention, something that I would be wary of accepting even in the case of personal safety, establishing a new name, date of birth, and identity is very expensive. It is not something to be taken lightly, and I cannot afford it. The second is much more complicated: I love my sister. We grew up together, with the exception of a few short years, we have been each other’s best friend. I could never, ever resign myself to the fate of never speaking to her again.
Despite all that, despite the fact that the very idea is ridiculously impossible, I ache with longing for a re-set button on my life.