All I wanted to do was leave, as each moment passed. As the conversation continued and I could hear my own voice partaking. All I was thinking about was emptying out my bank account and leaving. Unannounced, never to be seen from again. Adventure, freedom.The unexpected.
But instead I finished the conversation, and went back to work.Like I always do. Everyday. I sit there, staring at my work, empty faced, which was fitting since that's what my mind was: Empty.
I knew how I got here, I got here because what I'm wishing for doesn't exist. It's a dream, not the kind of dream where there is a hope that it will comes true. But more like a dream where dogs are talking and you're flying across to different planets and galaxies. A dream you can never wake up to. The dream of true freedom. Getting up each day and going wherever you want to go, because you want to go there. And that is the extent of your obligation.
No one gets that. It's just written about. A dream. A fiction. A false hope.
A false hope can make a person suffer more than anything else. It can eat away at the core of your essence, making a good life unbearable. It tears away at your very essence, Until you are empty, the only thing inside of you is that hope. No hope at all.
And then in from the back of the mind. A memory flashes: A man on a street somewhere. What kind of street? A highway. Driving past him. I see him. He was walking. With a bag. Nothing else. Something else. Something else about him. A smile. Yes. A sign in his hands too. What did it say? Anywhere
Who was he?
I looked at my face in the reflection of my computer screen. I was smirking.
Maybe all a false hope needs is courage.