I decided to run.  I grabbed my backpack, threw in my prized possession and climbed out of my bedroom window.  I climbed out of my window and headed north.  North up the railway line. Two hours later I stopped.  I stopped in the realization that my prized possession wasn’t the best choice as a runaway companion.  My prized possession wouldn’t keep me warm.  My prized possession wouldn’t feed me.  My prized possession, my eight hole Doc Martin boots with yellow stitching, were heavy.

A few hours later my boots and I made a sad and sorry return home.  I was thirteen years old.

I’ve been told that I will learn a lot about myself through this journey.  And yes I am.  I am learning that perhaps I still have a pair of Doc Martin boots in my cupboard.  I am learning that perhaps my middle age is tainted with a thirteen year old voice.  I am learning that perhaps I still prefer to retreat and hide.  Up a railway.  On my own.  Make the noise stop.

I am sorry my friends.  I am sorry my family.  I feel myself wanting to hide.  I feel myself wanting to retreat.   Am I already heading north?   Have I already found my railway in my bed and one thousand count thread?  Am I already making the noise stop?  My way.

I heard you yesterday my friend.  I heard your words of wisdom and reason.   Stop the pattern.  Stop retreating.  Be in the now.

I heard your plea my friend.  Your plea that retreating was not an option.  Retreating would not stop the toxins.  Retreating would not stop me dying.

I heard your words my friend.   I heard your suggestive words on embracing my freedom.  I have three weeks of freedom.  I have three weeks before the definition of my circus is shared.  I have three weeks before the reality of needles and magic machines are upon me again.  I agree, stop retreating.  Be in the now.

Are you free?  Where should we go?