walking out that door
all your adult life, you've had an image stuck in your head of you walking out that front door, with nothing but a small backpack, not knowing where you're going, but knowing you'll be fine for the first time in your life.
the last few days, since you started writing again, you can't get that image out of your head - it's like trying to shake a leaf out of your hair. it's with you all day, all night, in your dreams. you can't stop feeling it.
it has to mean something. not the image, the fantasy, the desire, the knowing, but the fact that the thought is not going away, not relegated to arriving home at the end of the day, gently crashing down on a chair at the kitchen table, staring into the middle distance with calm resignation.
no, it slows you down as you walk the corridor to your office, projects in front of your eyes as you tune out of committee meetings, hauntingly whispers to you in the dead of night.
and, tonight, it almost took over your body. you were ready to pack a bag - your laptop, some clothes. to write a resignation email, to call your brother to put your things in storage, then to put on your shoes.
and to walk out that door without a look back.
you're not sure how much longer you can ignore her call. you don't even know who she is, but you want desperately to know her, to follow her call to you - then spend the rest of your days in each other's arms.