Leaving, Part One

Leaving
A Travelogue, of Sorts

Overture
A prologue, weeks in advance


To be honest, I don't know why I'm writing this. I fully intended to write a travelogue documenting my journey across Canada with two good friends, from the tiny dot labelled Milton (if it is indeed on the map) to the slightly larger one labelled Victoria. Though... maybe it isn't any bigger. In all likelihood, it's merely a trick of my mind; my subconscious making manifest my desire to leave this place. Anyway, I did not intend to begin writing anything at this point. Indeed, why would I? I won't be leaving for almost another month. Until then, I sit, here in this town I have known all my life, and instead of relishing the familiarity, the memories embedded within the bricks and asphalt, the wood and grass, I grow stagnant. I atrophy. I decay.

There was a time when I rejoiced in the sameness, when I was empowered by the knowledge that, come what may, Milton would never change. I've grown up since then. In some ways, it holds true; in some ways, Milton hasn't changed, and probably never will. But in other ways, it has changed nearly to the point of being unrecognizable. The sameness no longer lifts my spirits; the familiarity does not offer any comfort. Instead, these things now instill in me a sense of emptiness. Not sadness, but emptiness. As if the sheer nothingness of this town is a black hole, pulling in everything I have, and everything that I am, until there is nothing left of me.

That is an image I would really like to drive home—that image of nothingness, of there being nothing left—because it truly defines one of my main reasons for leaving. Simply put: I feel as though there is nothing left for me here. I have used up all the resources. I have met all the people that I am likely to meet, and I have experienced everything that I am likely to experience. There is nothing left.

Milton, as much as I know it will always be home, has become to me a prison. Not a prison of iron bars and bare stone, but a prison of the mind. A prison of comfort. You see, it is far too easy to remain here where I am loved, and coast along, comfortable and going nowhere. Too easy to become one of those who are raised here and never leave, content with seeing the same people, having the same conversations, until I pass on from here and am remembered as one who was comfortable, who lived well but took no risks, and thus gained no rewards. Or worse, forgotten; consigned to the far more tangible prison of a Milton Champion obit: three lines of type accompanied by a picture.

Aden Daniel McCarville, July 15th 1989 – whenever.
Died peacefully in his sleep, or whatever.
May he rest in peace.

And that is all. Only my rest would be far from peaceful. To pass on into whatever awaits us after life's journey only being able to say that I was comfortable is not what I intend for myself; my ghost would not rest easy at that. And if there is such a thing as predestination—I try to remain open-minded about such things, even if to me they seem far-fetched—and doing something great with my life isn't my 'destiny', then I will make my own. I will shatter the bonds of fate through sheer stubborn unwillingness to conform, with the ferocity of my rebellion against that which would hold me back.

Though, if you were to ask me, I'd say there's no such thing as destiny, or fate. I'm open to the idea, but I have yet to see evidence that points to anything other than this: our lives are our own. We shape them ourselves, with every action, and every choice. And I plan to shape mine into something great, something wondrous. Something that I can be proud of; that I can look back upon and be glad I chose not to be comfortable.

I know that there are some who doubt this decision, and others still who doubt my motives, my reasons. I wish I knew what to say to placate you, but I honestly don't. If asked, I would not be able to look you in the eye and say that this is definitely the right decision, that BC is where I belong in the world. But I can tell you with all certainty that Milton, where many come and far fewer leave, the boneyard of so many dreams, and mine if I allow it, is not my place either. I hope that is enough. It certainly is for me.

I realize that these words I have written may shine too harsh a light upon this town I was raised in, or its inhabitants, or my very life. But I hope you—whoever you may be, reading this—realize that this song I've begun to sing is not a requiem for a better life; there is no discord in these notes. Instead, think of this as a prelude to new beginnings, to a search for a place to belong. A foreword before the true story begins.

Think of this as an overture to an opera of living.