I don’t get out much. I guess that’s hard to do when you’re always rooted in one place, stuck spinning in circles. The view gets old fast; slight variations in eye shape or stature don’t matter when everyone is reduced to a blur. They matter even less so when I know every face is destined to leave.

At this point, I don’t think anything could surprise me. In my first few decades? Sure, there was exploration to be had. The latest fashion trends. Roads paved into the sky. The newest jingle carried on the tongues of small children. But then it became the same. Fashion hasn’t been original in ages, it just keeps repeating itself. Chasing its tail. Searching for a new angle. Giving up, passing off the past for imagination. Like I wouldn’t know anything about that. Try and give me a fresh coat of paint and the old layers drive cracks through my facade.

When I was young, I relished lying to myself, convincing myself I was going anywhere. I could almost pretend my feet were digging into the earth before carrying me into a flying leap, the wind throwing my hair behind me. I can almost feel it now: a semblance of being real. Grounded. A creature not-so-suspended in time. Someone who can whisper my own name, instead of relying on incandescents on fire. Someone who can't be reduced to temporary distraction. To easy replacement. To a shared face once, twice, a dozen times over. Someone who can wander off the map’s plane and into oblivion and know that if I were to look behind me, the landscape would be a stranger.

But that can’t be me.

I don’t get out much.