| better words . . . . here there and everywhere |
We don't talk of running away anymore, like we used to. But nothing's changed, has it? This false complacency, when, really, the greater truth is this: we couldn't run far enough, could we? Far enough away, away from everyone, away from the damn telephone that I now promise never to answer again. And you never really leave people, do you? It can be a Christmas card or an email once every month, but no one is ever abandoned. Unfortunately. I wish I could make enough money for the both of us. You wouldn't be gone everyday, pursuing "our" plan with, at best, dismal interest. It really should be me. I'm quite accustomed to performing the drudge of pointless activity for some insipid goal. But money is freedom. We both know that. No more taps on the shoulder or false smiles. We could tell the whole world to sod off, with enough money. When it can just be you and me, and no one else. No school, no loans, no "sometimes jobs" based on a few marketable skills. Go here, go there, and go nowhere. I might be making beds and folding towels this Summer, away from you, earning money, earning freedom. Six months without you, maybe. I'll be sending checks home and planning our great escape. |
better places . . . . over under and through |