Jobs' mother wrote a book, Anywhere But Here.
It's one of those books whose title says it all. I have no interest in reading the book, I know what it contains, I live it.
Sometimes I feel I've been everywhere, and there is nowhere I want to go, but since I'd rather be anywhere but here, so I can't stay here either. There is nowhere left to go.
Then I see a leaf, a tree, a clearing in the middle of trees, in the middle of the city but sealed off from it, the sunlight streaming through their canopy. A life beckons me.