Runaway

I used to read endless stories when I was younger about children who ran away from home. They always seemed to have such fun, and adventures, and would eventually be picked up and taken back to safety by someone who truly cared about them.

I’m currently sat on a platform in a train station, three hours away from university, crying my eyes out. No, don’t panic, I haven’t run away (just yet, anyway!), I’m simply on my way back after a weekend at home. I’ve had a lovely time, but now I’m just a fizzy mess of emotion.

I can’t see from here what the destination of the train on the opposite platform is, but I know this much: that platform goes North. And Scotland is North. And I’m rather tempted to pick up my bags, jump across the tracks, and board whatever train is due to arrive.

I’d like to know what it’d be like to runaway. To on a whim, pack some bags and just go to wherever I wanted to. Maybe when I (hopefully) head to Turkey in the summer, that’ll be like a runaway mission. Only that would be a lot more fun than if I ran now. The rational part of me knows that jumping on a different train would be the worst idea I’ve ever had. I’d end up curled in a ball at some random train station, and there would sure as hell be nobody there to rescue me.

I’m really happy as of recent, but for some reason, these little moments of doubt keep slipping in.

Instead, I’m going to hold out until the next station, get a hot drink, board the final train, and go back to my uni bed, where I can hide under the covers.

Hiding is a much more sensible option. Just till morning, and then I’ll be back to my usual old self again.

I’m too old to runaway. And it must just keep telling myself that the fantasy and the reality of doing such a thing would be like two trains running on opposite tracks.

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