There are three methods of escape from here. Sitting where I am now,my makeshift desk placed just so under the window, I can physically see each and every one. On my side, a little to the right, the Commodore Barry Bridge sits, looking very much like a gateway. To what? I don’t know. I can see the toy cars speeding forward, all headed somewhere specific. Must be nice. I wouldn’t know.

Straight ahead, behind the houses that shelter the town junkies lay the train tracks. Forever the symbol of journeys and freedom. I can hear the train whistle now. It will speed past in about twenty seconds, rattling the house and my hand alike. I’ll stop writing until it goes by… If one day it decided to slow down, I could hop aboard if I wanted. I wouldn’t though.

If I lean forward and strain my neck a bit, I can look up and see planes flying overhead at fifteen minute intervals. Twenty minutes on Saturdays. I’ve counted. Several times. I always wonder; if I wave hard enough would the people on board the plane see me? Probably not; there’s no reason to look out the window while flying over my town. Nothing much to see here. Unless, of course, you’re filming a documentary entitled “Appealing Only Because It’s Just That Unappealing”. It’s the equivalent to calling your friends over to observe the squirrel you just mutilated with your car.

Yeah. I’m from "that" town. It’d be nice to leave, you know? Every once in a while; taste life in "the" town. Not permanently. I’d bring back some souvenirs in my suitcase; some bits of music, a couple breaths of freedom, a memory I just couldn’t leave. So I don’t forget. I’d bring back stories for everyone else. They’d like those. But this is all assuming that I left in the first place. Like I said, there are ways out. I could leave. But I won’t.

Coward.

Just living up to expectations, I suppose. I was born here, raised here. It’s only fitting that I let it become apart of me. Call it home. If I ever leave, I could learn to miss it here. After so many years I could never settle for picket fence- apple pie life. I’d probably just keep going; bridge after bridge, train after train, plane after plane. I’d be the Wanderer. But, again, that’s assuming that I left at some point.

Which I won’t do.

Not can’t, that’s already been established. Won’t. Won’t go after what might make me happy. I can be happy here. It’s not like I hate it. I just either love something or guess I don’t. I don’t love it here. I could, though. Really. I’m content with my scribbles on scraps and vivid dreams.

At night my mind is a symphony. I’m the conductor. In the dream world, I’m the narrator and this? This place? This is just the prelude. There are many, many chapters to go. I still have to meet the me I’ve never met. Gaze up at star filled skies with eyes the size of the moon. Find that feeling of feeling unique. Get to say, “Oh, it’s been forever. So sorry I’ve been gone. I was busy taking chances like the girl I know I’m not.” All my dreams. I don’t wake up and despise the world. Really. I’m fine. Writing in the early morning. My notebooks my one and lonely.

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I might leave. One day. If I get into the right state of mind. One day in the middle of fall when the sky is a brilliant shade of pink and gold. Right when the sun and moon meet for a little chat. I’ll stop keeping track and give myself no time to react. Just smile and go.

Hitchhike on the bridge.

Hop the train.

Flag down the plane.

Really.