self care is sneaking out in the middle of the night even though you have your own apartment and driving to the coast. any coast, so long as you cant see the other shore. one of the oceans, one of the great lakes, whatever. you watch the waves for a while before you find yourself in a denny’s eating pancakes at 4am. you leave and find yourself a run down motel with windows overlooking the highway. you’ve come this far, you think, why not see how much farther you can go. you clear out your bank account through the atm across the street over the course of a few days, you assume a new name, a pen name you always dreamed of using if you were an author. your eye for detail and steady hands help you make a fake ID. you cut and dye your hair. you don a pair of glasses the old you wasn’t brave enough to wear. you dress in goodwill flannels and torn jeans, an old green parka from when you were a teenager is the only thing you keep. you travel the country, stay in motels wherever you go, you collect their matchbooks. you find yourself in the arizona desert when your car breaks down. you wander the road, but no one passes by. you see a person on the horizon and you wonder if it’s a mirage. the person is a teenage boy dressed in 80′s clothes. he doesn’t look real, you wonder if it’s a fabled sand spirit. he directs you to the way of the nearest town. you never see the boy again. you find yourself a nice motel in arizona, and help out the owner, an elderly mexican woman, in return for free occupancy. when she grows old and weak, she hands over the motel to you. you remain the owner until your own death 60 years later. you meet the sand spirit again and you haunt the desert together, helping lost motorists who dare wander into this most inhospitable place