They called, and I went. It wasn’t a question of if or why, but just do.
I felt the call like a tickle against the nape of my neck, raising the hairs and sending a shiver down my spine. It came on in an instant and left just the same. But I knew what it was. I knew it was time to go.
I didn’t have much to pack. I didn’t have much to begin with. I threw what I did have into a pillowcase–old and moldy, the holes patched with equally deteriorating materials–and slung it over my shoulder.
Pillowcase. Such a strange word. What was a pillow, anyway?
In the distance, the sun rose sluggish and stained. It was normal to me, but I remember someone once remarking on how strange the red-orange cast was to them. Within a few hours, it would burn overhead, hot and relentless as always. And I would walk beneath its burning glow, determined and knowing that I cannot stop.
They called. I went. That is the way life is.
Arcadia's Roost 