Still

I'm not driven, he says, the way he thought I was at first. My rooms are narrow, and I'm tripping on strings I laid unknowing when I was twenty-one.
Is that right?
All the time, the carelessly counted two years of walking feeling free, he and I were laying a Hansel and Gretel strand of wet powder, burning slowly behind our heels? We are only now beginning to smell the smoke, perhaps. You can suffocate in your sleep. Choke on a thick smoke of debt and duty and deviation upon deviation.
Maybe the drive to be here was a drive away, if it was a drive at all. I want someone else's blithe, blind confidence that I am not moseying down a path toward quiet desperation. Where is the other strength that I leant upon, walking feeling free? It was the moving that kept us away from the spent, dark air, not moving in a particular direction. It was ourselves, not our flightplan.
Is that right?