Why You Don't Listen to Impulses

I grew up in a house which had a public path right next to it. Our garden led to this path, and many joyous hours were spent just cycling up and down the path. I loved that path a lot (although maybe not the dog poo that was there with a bag over it - that always caused a distraction to this tiny mind).

One evening, I was walking about the house, as you do. I saw that the front door was open.

I felt like having a run down that pathway and back. Be free to do it as I liked, without anyone else being there, dictating what we did, choosing me to be there. And then I'd be back as though nothing had ever happened, and life would go on as normal, unburnished and everything forgotten.

This projected image in my head, time to put action to words.

I ignored the fact that my parents outside looked all serious and possibly were arguing with each other, and that anything had been said in my direction. After all, I would be coming back, I'd be back in a couple of minutes, so I wasn't running away. I focused just on my run, rather than those silly words.

The run itself was liberating, exhilarating. It was the best run I'd ever had, and I loved each second of it. It released a fair amount of pent-up energy, which was good as back in those days, I was totally completely made up of energy.

It was when I'd got back to the house when everything went wrong. The door was shut, and I didn't have a key for it. How would I get in now?

Apparently I didn't have the mental capacity to knock on the fucking door. I looked at it for a few seconds, the destroyer of all hope and glory, and then, instead of doing the logical thing and hanging around the front of the house, I saw this as a sign of "You're not getting past me, hahahahaha," and turned around to go in the other direction.

I ambled around the neighbourhood, lost and confused. It was getting dark and cold now, and even with this lovely sweater I was wearing, I still felt the freezing-ness of the weather.

What do I do now? I thought, meandering around miserably. Where do I go? What about school?

Because of my lost-ness, I eventually ended up back at a place I recognised, by the corner shop (which had a pretty alarming thief alarm). I knew the way back home.

I decided to give it another shot, and started to walk down the road back.

At the head of the road, my father caught up with me in his car. He stopped right by me, and I got in, wondering if I'd be going back to his place.

No, we went a couple of metres down the road, and went in to home home. Moth took me to the back room and gave a fair argument for why not to run away, even saying that they'd nearly called the police and then I would have been in trouble.

And all for one impulsive run down a path.