Leaving

Of course the day I depart is the coldest day of the year. My bus exits the Louisville station at 6:35 tonight. Forty hours, 2,000 miles, seventy degrees later I will be in Tucson. My mom will cry.

My backpack is packed. I'm bringing a tent, sleeping bag, a few T-shirts, a couple long-sleeved tees, shorts, a pair of pants, toiletries, poncho, socks, boots, ipod touch, notebook, pens, hat, gloves, water bottle, running tights, copper kettle, glasses, sandals, and a bag of apples.

I have no idea what I will do when I get there or how to do it. I don't know what I want to do. There's no list of options that I could conjure up. There's nothing I could say now that wouldn't change when I get there. I don't know how or where or when I will discover what to do or why to do it. All I do know is I don't want to go to school or live at home. May be I'm naive or downright foolish, but it seems the wisest thing I can do right now.

I'm scared out of my wits. There's no telling what will be. There's a constant feeling of my stomach moving up to live in my throat. I have to poop a lot too. Very similar to pre-race jitters.

Here's a magical article I read earlier this week.