I had wanted to leave for a while.
I wasn’t sure when, but I didn’t want to stay in the city anymore. I didn’t want to conform to working in a place I hadn’t enjoyed for years. That thought alone left a rotten flavor in my mind — one that, if left unchanged, would never leave. Truly, the city had gotten so pungent with its suffocating culture that isolating myself felt like the only way to breathe freely again. The buildings, all simple rectangular shapes, were designed to cram as many people as possible into small spaces, housing the workers of society so they could engage in the endless, mind-numbing cycle of working from nine to five for five days, followed by a two-day pause to make the grind feel less conscripted.
March first. Spring had begun, washing in the fiery beauty of nature, painting the world again with color and new life. As wildlife flourished, so did people, drawn out by the sun’s warm invitation. I couldn’t think it through anymore. It had to be now — any later and I’d start doubting myself, making excuses. Yet, part of me wanted to stay. I didn’t want to fall behind; I didn’t want others to surge ahead of me. I didn’t want to be judged, but more truthfully, I probably just didn’t want to feel left behind.
I had already purchased a small patch of land deep in the forests of Sweden. In a small, old, raggedy duffle bag, I packed only the essentials: clothes and food. In another, larger bag, I carried my tools — everything from axes and log skinners to guns and an MP3 player loaded with songs that felt like home.
I walked through the revitalized spring woods to my plot of land, both hands gripping unevenly heavy bags, each step a promise to myself. I set them down and pitched my tent, then began searching for trees to conscript into my cabin.
The forest was quiet, save for the birds singing softly, their melodies weaving into the silence. The solitude felt comforting, almost sacred. After I found a tree I liked, I swung my axe.
*THUMP* *THUMP* *THACK* *THACK* …