Peter Pan is my favorite book. I have three copies of it. All of them are annotated. All of them are worn.
When I was little I was determined to be an adventurer. I was going to explore the whole world. There were tigers hiding in the day lilies. There were hunters hiding in the trees. And while I knew it was just a story part of me was pretty sure that Peter Pan was based on actual events. In the same way I believed (believe) the Doctor is real. It’s all just so generalized now. One person heard one specific story, and those details spread. With the Doctor, if I’m honest with you, I believed every detail. Gobbled it up. Now I know–erm imagine, some details stuck. Big, blue box. One person saw a big, blue box a few times and was like “yep, it’s always that.” And then came a tv show. And then came a fan base. And then came a skewing of the truth. But I know that if I wait it out, he’ll come to my TARDIS.
With Peter Pan I got carried away. Maybe. Understand me here. I had a great home life. I did. Shoot, I still could if I wanted to move back. But I was a restless kid. I still am. And I thought one day I’d run away. Not out of spite or fear or anger. I just needed to get away. To be free and to explore without restrictions. So I packed a bag. I kept a bag packed, for just the right time. Truth be told, I kept a bag packed in quiet anticipation of Peter Pan coming to my window. I remember crying myself to sleep a few times thinking about how I’m not English, and he’d never come to America.
It wasn’t a big bag, but I wasn’t a big person. A change of clothes. Underwear. A stuffed animal. Webby, from Duck Tales, I think. And my blankie.
This week I did something I hadn’t done for a very long time. I packed the bag. It’s a bookbag I stole from my brother. Olive drab canvas. I stole it when I reattached a strap. “I fixed it, so it’s mine now.” (I’m a bad person). A change of clothes. Shorts. Jeans. Two shirts. Underwear. Spare toothbrush. Deodorant. Yellow, stone-washed Toms. My favorite copy of Peter Pan. The current book I’m reading. Blankie.
Adulthood isn’t so different, and I know I’m not going anywhere, but I feel like I could. I could run away. Is it running away if you’re an adult with no actual obligations or ties?
Know that if the Doctor comes, I’m going. I’ve got my bags packed just like Donna Noble (on a much smaller scale). And when–if he does, we’re picking up Jeff Blossom, and hitting the infinite time/space highway.
It’s summer, and summer is brutal to my heart and mind. The way that winter destroys so many other people. Summer kills me. I’ve been trying to prepare myself. Getting myself ready with favorite memories from summers past. How can any summer live up to the summer of Fox Mulder? How can I survive another summer at all? This one may do me in.
I’m just so fitful. Restless. Chickenshit.