42

Snoozing was just not going to cut it anymore, I would have to open my eyes and face the harsh reality of another day. As I was lying there, unwilling, I saw my entire day flashing before my eyes. I knew what every single minute of the day was going to be like. I would stand up, rub my eyes, scratch my arse, put the kettle on, shower, brush my teeth, drink my coffee in a hurry and smoke on my way to the underground where I would find myself compacted against other commuters, some, who wouldn’t have showered, while being serenaded by the same guy with his guitar and rolling sound system that does my head-in every morning. 

On that specific morning, the idea of having to present myself in front of a classroom filled with students and the thought of having yet another conversation with my colleagues about English grammar brought me to tears. Life had to be more than this. Life had to be more than just a routine, where one waits anxiously for the weekend. I simply refused to believe that this was it.

I have nothing really to complain about. I’m one of the lucky ones: I have a roof over my head, a job, good friends and everything a white thirty-something European can ask for. Yet, it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t in a desperate search for love or lust. I wasn’t asking to win the lottery. I was simply asking for a life worth living. A life filled with excitement that didn’t come in the form of too many pints, for adventures that were more than a trip to Ikea, for beauty, for magic, for that knot at the pit of your stomach when you know that what you’ll do next will change everything, will change you; that adrenaline rush of not knowing what tomorrow will be made of. I was tired of my comfort zone. Comfort had rendered me lazy, it had made me passive; it had made me accept things I wouldn’t have otherwise, for fear of losing what I had. It was time… 

I took my time that morning: I gave my arse a good scratching; looked at the kettle, my hand resting on its side to feel the heat; I drank my coffee in my underwear on my balcony and I waved as people passed by; I took the time to really enjoy my cigarette; I let the water soothe my skin and sang while I leathered up. When I felt ready, I walked to work. It took me a long while to get there but the Dreamgirls accompanied me all the way. I simply walked in and quit. I didn’t give them time to ask me why; I quit and walked back out again. On my way back home; I emptied my bank account; I didn’t have much, it didn’t matter. I wrote letters to my flatmates, packed my bags and left. I didn’t look back. 

As I’m typing these words, I realise that I should have left a long time ago, I should have hit the road and lived. I shouldn’t have let others dictate what my life should be, I should have decided it for myself, unburdened by what is socially acceptable or not. This is my last column; I would have never imagined writing them in an internet café at a rest-stop on the highway to nowhere but I’m happy, I’m free. I have to hitch my next ride before night-fall.

So long… even though I can’t thank you for all the fish…