Escape-ism

At the end of the horrible day (as described in the previous blog), I called my parents. They took my depression more seriously than I did ("No, no, I'm fine. It's just a flesh wound. I'm getting better"*) and booked me a ticket home for that very night (using frequent flier miles). I threw the contents of my lit review and a couple T-shirts in my suitcase and raced to the airport. It was an exhilarating drive, and I had a calm, end-of-the-world feeling.

As the plane took off, I watched the city that has become my jail shrink into black night. I ignored the under-knowledge that it was a false escape and concentrated on the airplane magazine. Finding that inane, I turned to one of the library books I'm rereading in order to complete my thesis corrections. Even though I was taking my problems with me as literal carry-on baggage, it felt good to be going home. My real home, not my shared rental house in a college town.

Note: I'm on a roll with another example of Banksy's genius.
*This doesn't mean I'm suicidal. But it is a butchered movie quote. Can you tell which one?