Nick wandered down the path, his eyes darting this way and that. His knapsack slung around his shoulder and across his chest held five items, and only five items. His hair hung loose around his shoulders and his beard was starting to reflect the wild around him.
It had been nearly two weeks since he’d left home and all his possessions, save the five, and without knowing where he was going or why, set off on this journey. He couldn’t answer questions other than to say, “I have to go.” His friend even went so far as to make an appointment for him with her shrink. Nick never showed up for that appointment.
“I don’t feel crazy,” he’d said in protest.
“People that are really crazy never do.”
That was the last he’d spoken to her.
It wasn’t as if he’d heard voices in his head or anything. He hadn’t read or seen anything unusual. He wasn’t on any drugs. He simply felt compelled to leave. A tugging of sorts. He tried to ignore it. He had smiled and went through the motions at his job, in his relationship, with his friends. But he couldn’t shake the urge to move. And it was strange how one moment everything was okay, and the next, everything felt somehow wrong, somehow out of place and misshapen.
And so, he quit his job, told his roommate he would be leaving and gave him three months worth of rent, broke up with his girlfriend of 6 months (no big loss there), told his friends he was leaving, and set off.