My entry for the 22nd of January. I tried the David Sedaris method, but I probably deviated away from it too much. 

 

I’ve always been good at running away. Fading into a crowd, maintaining the delicate balance between a brisk but inconspicuous gait, scanning the horizon for any nook or side alley that I can slip through – it all comes naturally to me. Sometimes I do it on purpose, other times it’s as if I tumble and slip through reality, losing all permeance for a period, before reappearing in view of my shocked friends. They always ask the same questions, “Where’d you go?”, or, “Oh thank goodness! We thought we’d lost you!”. On the occasions where it happens by accident, those simple statements haunt me. Yes, I am that unnoticeable that you lost me, even though I was right next to you; I guess I should thank you for at least noticing that…

 

My first night out with friends. A daunting prospect: so many possibilities, so many ways it could go wrong - it’s no wonder escape felt like my only option. But how to do it? What is the best way to wiggle your way out of plans? Well, like any good introvert – introvert being synonymous with ‘escape artist’ in this case – I spent the train journey conspiring how I would avoid a social event, apparently forgetting that it had been myself who had promised to come. Eventually, the train came to a soundless but violent halt; knocking their passengers over seems to be the only guarantee Southern Railway can offer. I rushed down platform four of Brighton Station, flashed my railcard at the lethargic staff to get past the ticket gate, and sprinted to the toilets. I planned to hide there until I was certain my friends had left the station, our rendezvous point, but two minutes later she messaged me. Her – the real reason I’d wanted to flee as far as the Caucuses. She’d sent me a picture of the Flying Coffee Bean, the quaint little stall positioned at the heart of the station, and told me that everyone was waiting for me. Needless to say, I took the bait. 

 

We meandered down the vivid streets of Brighton, the Northern Lanes being our tributary of choice. A constant thrush of people propelled us forwards like an onslaught of rapids. The thoughts of escape had left my mind, for the time being, having been purged by the luminance of her presence and the light banter of my friends. Nonetheless, it wasn’t long until the shadows, cast by that sea of people, started tempting me again with retreat. I lingered towards the back of the group, slowly slipping away. I would’ve been swallowed up completely if she hadn’t noticed my subtle separation. We followed our friends ten or so paces behind them, talking the entire time about meaningless things, her hand the anchor that made sure I wouldn’t float away. By the time we reached the beachfront, my restlessness had become unquenchable, and we both knew that we’d reached the pivotal turning point. “You want to go don’t you.”, she stated passively. Her words evaporated into the air, mingling with the salty smell of brine and the gentle hymn of the sea. I nodded plainly as there was no point denying it. Then came the proposition that defined the entire night, and that sums up our friendship: “Don’t worry, I’ll cover for you.” I wonder what would have happened if I had replied differently, if I’d simply risen above the walls I confide myself in. Either way, I know one thing for certain. I am not like the tides. My moon won’t always be there to pull me in when I foolishly try to push away. Nor will she always be there to let me go with grace and dignity when the raw force of my nature overwhelms me.