Migration

I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and most of the time that’s fine by me. But in late fall when the sky fills with birds migrating south for the winter, traveling thousands of miles, I get homesick for places I’ve never been. Places where the air is warm, where I could have a home with wide open windows and french doors to let in the world’s light. Where I would walk outside and see a great rain forest, bursting with life which I have never seen before. Somewhere much unlike the blip of a town I lived in now. Where I would be trapped forever if I didn’t try to get out of my destiny, of taking over the family business and then grooming the next person down the line to be able to as well. Not that we made much of  a meager living out of our grocery store.

My house is small; I remember how big it used to feel to me as a child, but now it feels suffocating, like a dress that is two sizes to small for me to wear anymore.

Out of my few belongings, I shared as a child with my brother these books. It was a box of books which all depicted and talked about somewhere in the world. I don’t know what my parents thought, that perhaps those books would quench my need to explore, but they certainly didn’t. If nothing else, they only made me more excited to grow up and get away from here. In comparison to what was shown in the little books, there was so little to do in my town.

I wanted to travel the world after that. I still do. I wanted to see what was pictured and described in the books in person, to walk the streets of the most modern metropolises, to creep through dense forests, to slowly stride down a white sand beach, and make sandcastles, to just about anything rather than sit still and do what I was supposed to.

I have constantly itched to get out of here. I want to be able to do something for the world; I know that there must be bad parts along with the beauties of the universe. I want to help people. Here, people didn’t really need help. Not like the help I wish I could offer. They were all much too stuffy, to inherently entitled to realize that I could better use my time somewhere else.

I couldn’t help people from here. So I would have to leave to accomplish my dreams.

But I couldn’t leave. My only family was here. I have an obligation to fulfill by taking over the family business. I, in a way, have a duty to the whole town to stay here. Here.

And the rest of the world could manage without me there, right?

They didn’t need me there to survive. I didn’t owe the rest of the world any mind. Nobody knew who I was. I wasn’t anybody worth knowing. My absence would not be missed as it would be here. I would be strange and wayward out in that world. I probably couldn’t help them if I tried. I had my one skill set, and though it is my prison, I can only be of use here. Where it is all comfortable and familiar and safe and known.

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