She did not awake at 5:30 a.m with the intent to completely abandon all elements of the life she had lived, relatively well, all considered, for the past twenty-eight years, but that is precisely what she did. She simply left it all behind.
Denver had gotten up that morning and readied herself for work in the familiar panic she was used to. She then began the routine, thirty-five-minute commute to her job, approached her exit,- 34A-Turner’s Bank- and then, for reasons not wholly apparent to even herself, kept on driving east for a good four hours, at which point, snacks and a bathroom break were more than in order.
Though she had not consciously planned to abscond from all ties and responsibilities on this day, she could not feign complete and utter surprise at her actions. Discontent, subconscious or otherwise, had a way of manifesting itself in odd ways within one’s life. The color had been waning from hers for longer than she’d care to admit and she found that equal parts pitiful and unacceptable. Her world, once filled with fulfillment and vibrancy, had gone to shades of apathetic gray. It wasn’t clinical depression or any other condition in need of medical attention, but rather a persistent and profound need to realize her purpose.That much she understood.
The wondrous and overwhelming beauty of the unknown, ripe with possibility. That’s what drove her- quite literally now- not a desire to shirk responsibilities or
break familial ties- yet of those she had, admittedly, precious few. She simply
wanted to feel alive, to remember what sheer joy, anticipation felt
She had slowly become disillusioned with her new position, despite all of its bells and whistles, in the form of salary increase and full benefits. She was undoubtedly more than proficient and had easily fallen into a rhythm but felt deeply unfulfilled. The bank was a great place to work, but that was exactly what it was-work- and all it could ever possibly be for her. She needed time and freedom to get lost outdoors or in words- either her own writings or those of an American classic.
Every day that she arose before the sun came up and drove back to her tiny hole of a dwelling after the sun went down, without being afforded even a glimpse of the great golden orb, stole a little piece of her soul. She needed to see the sun, to feel its heat on her face.
She doubted everyone shared her enthusiasm for the sun, in light of the drought central California had been experiencing as of late. She had watched with pained helplessness as her grass went from a spring green to a light brown and then to a bleached shade of sorts that, if she were pushed to name, she’d refer to as sand. The gardenias she was so proud to have planted herself, her pride stemming from the fact that she never did useful, practical things, have withered into husks- perhaps in solidarity with the grass- despite the fact that she violated all written and verbalized restrictions and watered them freely. Everything around her had been turning to dust. Signs from the universe, perhaps.