That's twenty-one days, and in the grand, agonising sweep of human history, it’s a blink. But when you’re standing on the precipice of a clean break, it feels like an eternity spent in the fluorescent-lit purgatory of a motorcycle dealership.
I’ve already drafted the digital middle finger that will serve as my outgoing voicemail: "I am currently overseas pursuing a life of simplicity. This phone is being left in a drawer, so if you’re calling about a motorcycle, I suggest you find a salesman who isn't currently halfway across the world. Don't leave a message.”
It’s the verbal version of leaving a dinner party through the kitchen window.
The flights are booked, and my life is reduced to one backpack, containing some clothes, a camera, and an iPad. Along with a thirst for the unknown that is currently outranking my thirst for a top shelf whiskey, though only just.
It has been far too long since I’ve had the glorious, but terrifying privilege of having no fixed address and no "civilised" responsibilities to tether my soul to a specific coordinate on a map.
I’ll make friends in dimly lit bars whose names I’ll forget by breakfast. I’ll eat something from a sidewalk stall that will either be the best thing I’ve ever tasted or will result in a violent, three-day negotiation with my own digestive system. I’ll get lost, tired and irritated at times.
And somewhere in all of that, I’ll feel relief.
The world of sales, with forced smiles and the endless back and forth, is receding in the rearview mirror like a burning wreck. I’m still showing up, but the stress? That’s someone else’s ulcer now.
I’ve checked out. My biggest existential crisis at the moment is whether to pack a single, fast prime lens or succumb to the utilitarian temptation of a zoom.
Because that’s the endgame. A drama free life with a camera, the right light, and the road.
