It starts with an itching on the back of your hands, a thrumming under your skin.
The world is quiet, sleeping, but you don't join in, every groan of the house amplified by silence.
It sets your teeth on edge, and you wince in time to the ticking of the clock.
Up, up, time to go your muscles scream, and it takes a concerted effort not to leap from your seat.
Outside, you know, the cold black sky is waiting, wider than anything you could ever reach.
An awareness of the never-ending roads pounds relentlessly through the back of your mind.
A shudder rippling through your frame; a visceral reaction to the wanderlust infecting you, body and soul.
Visions of the future flash by, clear as memory, promising adventures and new people and freedom.
Freedom that tastes like ice-cold spring water, a welcome reprieve from the constriction in the back of your throat.
You can't seem to conjure a reason not to go; you've forgotten that all ideas are good ideas in the middle of the night.
How could such a decision possibly seem poor under the luminescent moon's calm gaze?
So with a haphazardly loaded duffle, you set out into the Great Unknown, fearless in the throes of your fevered desires.
No one can say a word, not for good, nor for ill, either.
We're only side characters in each others' stories anyway.
Only the protagonist can steer this destiny, and leave the rest to Fate, or particularly good writing.
Dawn is breaking on the horizon and the next chapter is yours to complete.
No one else can ride off into the sun for you, you've got to do it yourself.
