whoisjobe: the story continues to begin?

I have this incessant need to runaway, in an attempt to fix problems which may or may not exist. I want to run, as fast I can, anywhere but here, anywhere but the certainty of monotony. And yet the paradox of the my strife is that it could in fact all be a giant subconscious lie, a trick forged deep in the chasms of a fragile mind years ago when I was clutched from my mothers arms by a jealous father. That month of complete terror and uncertainty could be the pre to my post traumatic stress disorder. Let's assume, for a second or two, that such a term is applicable in real life, that it can be engrained in human psyche (to me it’s obvious, to many non-believers it’s a giant excuse, an excuse they don’t buy when in all actuality no one was selling it to them). Then all this time I've made mistake after mistake, the answer was underneath the mat, hidden behind a dew covered leaf and waiting to be exposed as a mendacious truth. Maybe the desire to run is perpetually triggered because I ran, by no choice of my own. My father took me to California and ran: away from his problems, away from my mother and the police, away from his fractured self. And in his manic reaction to my mother’s grant of full custody, his influence in my life was reduced to nothing more than a cheap attempt at redemption. What a prick, what a sorry investment, one month of a child's life, obtained surreptitiously and traded for never your son again, never again having another chance to teach him how to surf or take pictures, pick up girls or peruse through the windows of life picking this or that destiny, tempting fate yet trusting in knowledge passed down through lineage and family trust. I have no desire to seek him out for fears too difficult to explain: Freudian fears of a crashing plane or a maniac with a gun. He's not the answer, but what is? I want to runaway and leave the people I love to discover those I don't. I want to run and search and glide across the surface of things without a trail-map, forever wondering why the boulders I've stumbled over have been anything but few and far between. No wonder why I'm forever stuck asking questions and trying to reveal the key behind the leaf. It's all too evident and yet still a grand mystery. It's still my life, a rain drop in the ocean of humanities history.