You might feel unready. You may feel unqualified. It may seem as though there are things to be finished here first. You might feel as though better times are coming. There are people you’ll miss too much,
and the place you’re leaving just got a lot warmer. Yeah, maybe it’s midsummer or new-Autumn
when everything is peach-glow and golding and all the pretty wildflowers are happening in violets and lilacs across the park opposite. The sun is loud on your skin, and there’s a late and desperate sheen to everything, in and out of doors. This old life does not want to let you go.
Maybe they’re starting to be nice to you at your job. Your boss just about trusts you now, you can tell. You’ll probably get a good raise in a year. You’ll move steadily up the company with benefits. Maybe fear is telling you to wait it out.
Perhaps your friend, who wants to make the most of your time left in the city, takes you out on a Tuesday, and you drink on the round tables outside the restaurant, watching the skateboarders who are young and brown and chiselled and daring. No place like this, your friend warns, surveying the magazine scene. You sure you want to leave?
You order fries and ask yourself that same thing, but your Spirit has spoken. Weeks ago. Months ago. Trust it.
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