Leaving is a hard thing to do, sometimes. But its difficulty really depends on the person. Some people are always itching to get up out of their seats. Always looking for something new to try, looking for unusual sights and smells to keep them going, so they don't fizzle out.
But others like to anchor themselves, so that they are safe and secure. They like to immerse themselves in the buildings and daily happenings of their hometown, so that they are comfortably folded in its midst. Leaving then becomes a hard thing, like prying a caterpillar out of its cacoon, full of imperceptible alarm and frantic squirming.
For me, leaving is an experience which I have forgotten. I have done it before, but today it is fresh again, a surprise that I had been anticipating for many years. It creeps into my mind, like a bad thought you know you shouldn't be having. But its source is unknown to me. Leaving is the thing that stands behind you, holding tightly on to your shoulders and shuffling you forward, not waiting for your feet to obey. It is when you're standing in the library and someone kills the lights in the room behind you, so you swiftly step ahead, looking back a little disconcerted.
Leaving disrupts your coordination, and your balance. The things that were once solid are now convoluted and mercurial, and you can no longer trust your eyes and ears. You may stumble out of a labyrinth and realize that it was only a garden, and standing at the intersection, you may realize that every pathway is slanted and twisted, defying your understanding of physical space.
Leaving is a place where you pause to rest a moment so that you have the chance to reflect clearly on what came before and what is coming soon. But if you stay too long, it may warp your sense of truth, so that you can no longer tell where things begin and where they end, so you can't see the point of anything. As long as you grasp that your perspective will never fully comprehend this time they call "leaving," you may one day have the courage to leave.
