"To scare myself with my own desert places."

Living in the South is like being in the desert. Not in the most
obvious sense, as with the heat and bothersome bugs and
perils of snakes and other horrific critters... although that's
here, too.

No, in the south it's dry.
Slow.
Boring.
Dirty.
Uncomfortable.
And Nothing grows here, either.

The only way to get some excitement is to have heatstroke
or suffer from the effects of a mirage.

"Why not move?" A simple enough query.

Would if I could.

Times are tough, obligations plentiful.  But that's not all.

All the Kerouacs and world travellers and adventurous sorts...
all the 'Kumbaya' and openness to discovery....all that 'hitch
your wagon to the stars' and 'the world is my oyster' stuff makes
for great movies, and it sounds like a pip.

But.

But it's mostly great when you're in your twenties.
Maybe your thirties.

Works great at any age when you're well-off financially, or
have places to stay should/when problems arise.

Works great when your body's in great shape and your
options are plentiful.

But my world's grown smaller and less-populated, habits
have become history, and I know what I know.

Making the most of what you have should be an Olympic
event--it sure takes a ton of hard work, sacrifice and training.

Perhaps I'm merely drained of all soul and adventurous
spirit from my long and arduous journey through the swampy,
intolerant, unflinching environs of the South.

Those words and glares and 'sublimated' threats are as
sticky as an armpit at High Noon.

Maybe the whole point of venturing out of the desert is
the hope that--against the odds--there is something
beyond these limited borders, which have now afflicted
our minds, too.

If only we can overcome the fear that the torture to come
is worse than the torture which has kept us in place.

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