Last night I packed my backpack as though I was about to go traveling again. It was soothing.

I got so used to traveling without much to carry, you know? Because I had to carry everything I had, and I know that I can only carry so much on my back. My energy is a finite thing, no matter how strong I am, no matter how much I want to hold on to.

So I mostly held on to the things that I knew would come in useful. And I got a very clear picture of what actually was useful, what I needed. What served me and what didn’t.

Open the lid, and look inside, and say “alright, what am I carrying that is superfluous? What can I let go of?”

(I never let go of the books. They’re heavy and they take up space but you have to know when to be human.)

I just

I miss traveling. So much. I miss carrying so little and waking up in the morning and wondering “where am I going today? Am I staying or going?” I miss having no clear direction, no agenda, no plan. I miss learning about the places I was in while I was in them. I felt so free.

It’s selfish, because of COVID-19, because my sister is having a graduation party this weekend and I have to be there, for her. But I almost want to run away. Tomorrow or the next day, maybe. Throw a pack over my shoulder and slip out into the evening. I could tent camp across America. I could go north and attempt to sneak across the Canadian border. It can’t be that difficult.

I could walk to Alaska.

I’m all set to go.