On nights when I’m sad, I sneak out my bedroom window, and ride my bike down to the river. It’s quite an interesting place. If you go far enough the river breaks off to stream, surrounded by trees in the sand. But tonight, I’m leaving to the river, and staying there. Forever. I can’t take it here. It’s stupid. Everyone hates me. Orphanages SUCK. I have packed my things. Paper, pencils, a lighter, a rope, some food and water, clothes, a water filter, (Stolen from my roommate, I wonder why he has one.) my headphones, and my a Swiss army knife. I finally stuff in my phone. I take a small sleeping bag and shove it into the remaining space of my bag. And then, I climb down the window, hop on my bike, and pedal away. The wind hits my face, the stars look down on me. The moon looks at me, ashamed. I know. I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s the only way I’ll ever have a good life.
The smell of the river fulfills my nose. I can see the water rush through the gaping trench, dodging rocks and logs and some fish too. Finally, it breaks off and I take the path leading towards the little lake I named after myself, Ohio Lake. Yes, I am named Ohio. No, I don’t live in Ohio, I live in Maine. But, I still called it Ohio. I stop my bike, and lean it against the tree. I breath in the smell if nature. “This is my home now.” I whisper in awe. I put my stuff down and get to work. I’ll need a shelter. I take my Swiss army knife out of my pack. What can I use here? I guess I can use the branches over there. They must have fallen off after last night’s storm. I grab them and set up a small frame. The wood is soggy, but I don’t mind. I finally top of my new little home by putting leaves on top of the frame. But, the ground. It it’s wet, and not mention cold. I pile up some leaves in there too. There. It’s done. I look up at the stars. Am I really doing this. “Yes, you are.” My mind tells me. I sigh. This is what I’ve become. A hobo. Stop. Don’t say that. You might have just offended someone.
I suppose that someone will find me sooner or later. But I don’t want them too. I lay down on my sleeping bag which I had rolled out, and stared at the branches and leaves over my head. I really hope my shelter doesn’t fall out. I sit up. Nope. No sleep tonight. I open my backpack and take out my paper and pencil. I draw the stars, and my little shelter, and me, by the lake. I smile. If only I had brought my colored pencils. No. Don’t think about that. You. Aren’t. Going. Back. This is it. This is final. You will stay here for your life, and all of eternity. I look up once more, and then put the drawing in my pack. I changed my mind. Sleep is necessary. I get in my sleeping bag, and close my eyes, listening to the sounds of the lake.