I thought I was moving. Based on suggestion, half-asleep ghost talk, it steeped into strategy, from the bottom up. The world around me happily took to it. Words and stories appeared in solid form, to tumble freely into that farthest haloed vanishing point. My things were not yet packed, but I had already estimated their volume, observing how they would puzzle-piece their way into the back of an idling pickup truck. I bought a plane ticket to visit. It wasn't very important, since I knew where I was going, but I thought I might as well.

Then what happened? I'm not sure. As I drew closer it became clearer but illegible. The memory of the sun burned my skin, and the real sun sharpened my eyes to details beyond recognition -- a sizzle of rust, dried paint, and wild fennel, veering haphazardly across a grid of white concrete. But the scenery did not inspire passion, or renewed understanding. I wanted to be emboldened in an unknown place. Instead I became resolute in a familiar one.

Once back home, my darkened skin peels. The visit had affected me, but I no longer felt the desire to move. Maybe all I had needed was to be close to the possibility, and know that I was able to accept it. I had seen what was there bountifully, and what could not be accessed, and what was here bountifully, and in scarcity, but wide open. There is useful energy that can be generated from counterintuition. But for now, I'm in no hurry.