The other day I watched "Into the Wild," which is about a man who disappeared on purpose and trekked to Alaska, where he lived in an abandoned bus. (Vague spoiler coming later.) In one brief scene, he watched a small herd of caribou walking through the snow and it brought huge tears to his eyes...
I told a friend at work last night: I can't remember the last time I felt that way. My caribou are missing. Or have run away. Or have been made into sausage.
I just completed the first semester of my MFA program, and I thought I'd be happy, or relieved, or celebrating. I'm just tired. Much of this is compounded by continuing impossibleness at work and trying to balance the two. Some days the idea of disappearing on purpose, trekking to Alaska and living in an abandoned bus has its appeal (aside from the unfortunate conclusion).
Alaska or no, the caribou must out there somewhere.