The Escape

I learned to escape

Not by running away. Not by packing a suitcase or disappearing to another country.
I did that long ago.

I also did something else to vanish.
In a place I remember. I used to sit against a wall, listen to the crazy music of that place and hold my knees between my arms and rock back and forth, whimpering and grunting until fears disappeared.
I don’t want to talk about this now.

Then, there is something else. Different. I learned to escape anywhere, not against a wall; anytime! Day or night. Easily without attracting attention.

Yes! Now, I escape just by closing my eyes.

It began so quietly that I never noticed I was learning a skill. 
Whenever life became too loud, too cruel, too disappointing, I slipped somewhere else.
Into memories. Into imagined places. Into small worlds where people spoke gently, where rooms smelled of coffee and paper, where sunlight rested on old wooden tables and nothing terrible happened for a little while.

I became invisible. And invisible, I could finally be myself.

No one expected strength from someone they couldn’t see. No one expected confidence, certainty, or clever answers.

Invisible, I was allowed to be fragile. I could cry without apologizing. I could be afraid without pretending courage. I could admit that words hurt me, that silence hurt me, that indifference hurt me most of all.

The invisible version of me never had to win. It simply had to survive.

Invisible, I didn’t need beautiful clothes.
I didn’t need makeup. I didn’t need to decorate myself to deserve a place in the room.

The money could become bread instead. Or strawberries. Or a warm café latte on a cold morning.

Funny how reality asks us to spend so much just to be seen.
The invisible world asks for nothing. Only honesty.

People sometimes say escaping is weakness. Perhaps.

But I don’t think they understand. Sometimes escaping is simply resting before returning to the battlefield. Sometimes memory becomes a shelter when life offers none.
Sometimes imagination is the only room where your heart can sit down and remove its heavy coat.

I have lived there often. Among old perfumes, forgotten streets, photographs fading at the edges, voices that loved me once, and people who were there for me because I loved them.

I know those places are not real. But neither is the smiling face we sometimes wear to convince the world that everything is fine. If I must choose between two illusions, I choose the one that lets me breathe.

Eventually I open my eyes again. The dishes are still there. The bills are still waiting.

The worries have not disappeared. But neither have I.

I return carrying something small from that invisible country.
A little more peace. A little more courage.
Enough to continue until evening.

Perhaps that is what memories are for. Not to imprison us in the past. But to keep a light burning when the present becomes too dark to walk through.