I keep shooting out little sparks like a piece of flint rubbed against metal.

I’m so mad—this journey is too damn hard!!

I’m being pulled out of my cell and I’m clinging to the bars yelling but wait! I’m friends with the jailer, how can I leave? I get three meals and one cup of coffee a day! All I have to do is stay put.

I'm so scared and tired and full of doubt. It's so far. There are so many details, so much is unknown. I'm so inadequate. How can I do all of this? How will I survive? Will I become a disaster story, my family shaking their heads over my unexplainable downfall on the far end of the country?

I know deep down I’m leaving. I can’t resist the journey, the enigmatic calling toward something worthwhile. Even while my brain is arguing, I feel aroused, happy, just walking past the field with its red hot dog stand and crazy-berried stalks silhouetted against the horizon. This morning, it was clean before I got there. There was a stray metal grocery cart in the adjacent lot, shining silvery in the sun.