But then, is it really all that bad to begin something with a cliche? A cliche comes into being in the first place because it is quick and catchy, and because its meaning is immediately and universally known to all. One does not need to search a cliche for hidden meaning or wit; one reads a cliche and knows what it means, no questions.
So, without further adieu, as another cliche goes, to begin with a cliche:
By the time you read this, I will already be gone.
My exodus is no sudden decision. During the second month of this semester, in my General Psychology class, we took a Death Anxiety Test to assess how afraid we were of the possibility of death and the limitations of our own mortality. After taking this test, I came to learn that death, in and of itself, is a reality I readily accept; that is to say, accept, not seek. I am in no hurry to die, but I'm not going to try to pathetically fight it off; when my time comes, I will accept it, without a whimper and without a fight.
However, this test also taught me that, the idea of a sort of memetic death - of leaving no legacy, no memory, no lasting impression on society and the world around me, of being, for all intents and purposes, completely forgotten once my physical body ceased to live - terrifies me. What is the point of life if we leave no impression in death?
Since then, it has grown increasingly clear to me that my present path in life - pursuing a two bit, community college education, coupled with a major that's a dime a dozen, in a sheltered and dry atmosphere - brings me no closer to leaving said legacy, and brings me no closer to leaving such a mark.
What am I setting out to accomplish? I could say that I'm out in search of adventure, my people, my purpose, and my home, which is all true, to an extent, but to be perfectly honest, I have no exact fucking clue. I know how I plan to begin but I have no idea where or how this will end; I maintain zero expectations so as to feel no pressure to meet them nor disappointment when I fall short. Having lived in the northeast my entire life, I'm setting out by myself in the general direction of southwest, with my car, a power inverter, my computer, my camera, some basic toiletries and a couple bucks, and I have no intention of giving up until I have an epiphany, settle down happily, or am dead. Hopefully the former two, of course, and not the latter.
I leave in half an hour, hours before my family returns from a week long vacation in Canada. There are many who I leave behind, regrettably, and the one I regret the most would undoubtedly be my sister, though the words I have to give her are not to be imprinted here. There is Ericson, of course, who was the first to hear of this, and Erik, who heard of it while it was still in the air and probably saw it coming. There is my darling employer, those who I've loved and continue to love, most of the people who read this, and so on and so forth.
Surprisingly, despite all of the countless things that could possibly go wrong in such an undertaking, the only sources of anxiety for me right now are where will I bathe (I won't reach a hostel for several days yet) and where will I gain access to the internet (I've a list of free WiFi points and public libraries). This will not be my last entry. Far from it.
I may be home in a week. I may be home in a year. I may not be home. I do not expect an easy path in the days ahead, but it is a path I must take, a sort of calling, if you will, which I would never forgive myself later for not following while I had the chance.
This is not goodbye. Think of it as, T.T.F.N.