*unedited from rough draft (The Outsider: A Novel)
I woke up one morning in a state of complete despair and found myself debating the absurdity of carrying on like this when I had options. They were clear as day and night and manifest out of who-knows-where:
One, I could kill myself.
Two, I could go to Africa.
On one hand, wouldn’t it be convenient to throw in the towel? I mean, if Cobain had anything right… no, that’s not right. Then there is Africa. What is the purpose of suicide? Escape. What is Africa but that exactly, and what’s more, Africa felt like the crazier, more dramatic, more risky decision. So I broke my lease, to much objection and name calling and heartbreaking fights with my ex, sold everything from my beloved guitar to our shared kitchen table. Traded my car for cash, donated all the non-essentials, essentially keeping only what fit into my shiny new 70-liter pack and bought a one-way ticket to Africa.