How hard would it be to just disappear? How hard, to empty bank accounts, roll the cash up, slip a rubber band about it, and be off? Just enough to get lost and not have to come back, enough to carry you to some remote section of the Pacific Northwest, where men have beards to fight back the cold and muscles that creak and groan with the wear of real work. Could you swing an ax, pull a saw? Could you lay waste and be content in it? How hard would it be to stop being the people pleaser, the person out of himself always trying to impress, always worrying what others think? Could you put down the pen and pick up a tool? Set aside the writing and the overwhelming need to sew sadness through your own life in order to have a story to tell that goes with it? The feel of hickory in your hand, a thick hipped woman and a loyal dog, the smell of smoke in the hearth and the taste of it in your moustache as you smoke the day's last, and finest, cigarette. How hard would it be?
How easy?
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