I want to tuck me away, in 600 square feet, creaky floor boards, wood heat. I want to dig in the dirt, make life bloom, eat food without fluff that I caught or prepared over a slow burning fire. I want to have only two outfits to my name, a bed and a warm blanket, a shelf of books and tea. I want to throw it all away so that there’s nothing left to clean. I want to pull through the waves all day long, or chase down the goats to milk, or haul hay. I want to be completely physically drained until there is no room for sad. There is only room for the kind of tired that puts your heart to rest. When I get this way, I only want to do. I don’t want to think, feel or emote because it all comes out as a scream or a joke. I want to be so alone that my movements echo off the walls. I want to work until my hands blister and my face is burned and raw. I want to smash my phone and laptop against the wall, get away from the drone, the social melee of spewed information without content. I want to be content without…without…without. I want to be the one who creates not regurgitates. I want to be without.