Part 1: The Midnight Disposal
It starts in the dark. It always does.
There is something eerie about breaking into your own life. I drove to the job site in the middle of the night—a state project, federally funded, cameras everywhere watching the ghosts. I opened the two security gates myself, the chain-link rattling like bones. I wasn’t there to build; I was there to erase.
I quickly disposed of the bags—the ones that didn’t sell, the ones that didn’t make the cut for the dumpster. Then, the trailer. I used my key for the last time. I dropped the laptop on the desk. I dropped the iPhone. The bag. Everything they gave me to tether me to their reality, I left right there on the Formica. It was a digital amputation.
I raced back home to an empty place.
Part 2: The Benjamin Button Exit
The next morning, I woke up on an air mattress that I immediately deflated and threw in the trash. It’s like living Benjamin Button in reverse—I am stripping away the layers of adulthood until I am back to zero.
I put the unit key in a secret spot for the landlord. I took one last walk through the empty rooms. The echo of my own footsteps was the only applause I got. I walked backward out the door, into a Lyft, into an airport.
There is no going back anymore. The bridge isn’t just burned; it’s vaporized.
Part 3: The Sardine Can to Seoul
I flew from Tucson to Salt Lake City just to stand there and be pressed like a sardine into the last flight out. The long haul. Salt Lake to South Korea.
Am I nervous? No. Am I scared? No. Is there a scent of urine in the air? Maybe. Or maybe that’s just the smell of fear coming off the other passengers who are terrified of turbulence while I’m terrified of stagnation.
I checked the paperwork a thousand times. The Korean Visa? Check. The Vietnamese Visa? Check. The 401k, the bank accounts, the cards—will they work overseas? Who knows. I’m playing Russian Roulette with the logistics, and the chamber is spinning.
Part 4: The Touchdown and the Knives
I landed in Incheon. I made a couple of wrong turns. I showed up late to the long lines at Customs. I showed up late to get my carry-on. And then, the snag.
The Knives.
Of course my knives were an issue. You can’t dismantle a life without carrying a few blades. But I navigated the special customs gate. I walked out into the cold Korean air, looking for a shuttle, settling for a taxi.
Fourteen dollars. Beautiful.
It hasn’t kicked in yet. The reality hasn’t hit the nervous system. I’m moving through the world like a ghost in the machine.
Part 5: The Receiver in the Air
Right now, I am in the Zone.
You know that moment in a football game where the receiver jumps in the air? He’s suspended. Gravity has let go. He is catching the ball, and time slows down. He is doing something exceptional while millions of unathletic pieces of shit sit on their couches eating potato chips thinking, “Hey, I can do that.”
But they never do.
That’s me. I am in the air. I am catching the ball. There is no hope, no happiness, no help, no support. Just the decision. I made this happen.
Part 6: The Final Leg
Tomorrow morning, I hop on the Vietnam airlines shuttle. I’ll go to the airport ahead of schedule. I’ll fly to Da Nang. Five hours.
I paid for the “Fast Track” through customs because I’m done waiting in lines. I have an assigned taxi service that will take me directly to my place—the one above the coffee shop.
My unit is ready. My “Yoga Seamstress” is already waiting. She should be arriving later. The concept of taking a shower first might be our primary courtship ritual. Wash off the travel, wash off the America, wash off the old life.
None of this feels unreal. None of it feels uncomfortable. There is no forced art here.
I’m not “fine.” I am exhorting. I am vibrating at a frequency that most people can’t hear.
I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know if the parachute opens.
But I do feel the evolution. I feel the skin shedding.
I am the gladiator who just walked out of the arena, and I didn’t even look back at the Emperor.
Ignition.
