Nowhere

It's a cold, wintery morning as The Fisherman pulls into the parking lot. He pulls his bags from the backseat of his 2004 Ford F-150, and drags them through the glass, automatic sliding doors that mark the entrance to an unknown destination. The sounds of hundreds of people milling about fills his ears in a cacophonous din so loud it drowns out his very thoughts.

Just last week he had bought a plane ticket to nowhere, and he was ready to go. He was ready to get away from the masses and leave this world behind. There was nothing here for him, or so he thought. He might as well save everyone else the trouble of caring about his existence. He didn't belong; didn't feel any purpose. He felt as if he had been born into a world devoid of sanity and hope.

He gets in line to check his baggage, and says one final goodbye to the supposed wretched world he lives in. He hefts his bags onto the scale and shoves his hands in the pockets of his dirty blue jeans. The attendant glances at her computer screen and turns to look The Fisherman in the eyes.

"No one truly goes nowhere."

Suddenly, it felt as if a burden had been lifted from The Fisherman's shoulders.