Though I did have a moment today. I thought, while inching along I5 South just north of Tacoma, of pulling my car over to the shoulder, turning it off, and walking into the lanes I so often frequent on wheels. I thought of the feeling of my steps on that asphalt, worn smooth under the load of millions of commuters. I’d lay down between the second and third lanes, lazily thinking that the white lane markers are actually longer than I am. I’d gaze up at blue skies, pockmarked with white and grey clouds alike, and I’d sleep.

I’m pretty sure this is what burnt out feels like.

I’ve been looking at a calendar for the past hour in an attempt to gauge how many nights I’ve actually spent at my house since I move in. All weekend nights are eliminated. A few weekdays here and there, also eliminated. I’d say roughly half. In the nights I do sleep in this wonderful, comfortable bed, I’m usually thinking about when I’ll leave next.

I have no concept of patience. Many times since summer, I’ve left on an impulse in the middle of a Monday or Thursday, and just drove north or south. I’d try to talk myself out of it, to explain to myself that I just had to give it a few days and I’d be there. But impulse always prevails over patience. My selfishness that I found so easily has led to a I-want-it-when-I-want-it complex. Which has led to me driving. A lot. All the time. Everywhere.

I got into a car accident last week. My first, and on a busy street in Puyallup. I was picking up pizza for some volunteers. I looked down to check my GPS. I hit the lady in front of me.

Everyone is okay, the only casualty is my lovely little Honda. My Honda, that my grandparents sold my parents for such a good price, is waiting to be taken to a salvage lot, the front end hammered in by impact. I put roughly 90,000 miles on that little car since I got it back in 2005. It never let me down.

And now I have to look into buying a car for the next three months before I leave.

But I’m not worrying about that tonight. Tonight I’m relaxing on my freshly made bed, folding my five loads of neglected laundry, and enjoying my house.

Because I live here, in Olympia. And I’m not dead.