There are many ways of leaving, even staying. I can spot it every day when I meet with people I have not seen for a long time, and they tell me that they spend their time in their homes, that they seldom go out, that they barely see the news or watch the TV. They cannot bear the “outside.” the streets, the situation. They have created for themselves a world that could easily be in Bangladesh or Sydney (except for a few very transcendent details).
Getting yourself locked in is as hard as leaving, since for some, isolation is a fallback option after emigration has failed. A friend told me some days ago that, given the little social contact he has, it’s just as if he were living in a hut in Tibet, with a picture, on the wall, of the view from his window at the municipality of Playa.
If you try to get an insight of this tendency to stay at home, you will find arguments like, “I have too few friends that I can visit, everyone has left,” “The streets are too problematical,” “everything is so expensive,” “it’s not worth the sacrifice to go out,” “it hurts when I see everything so deteriorated.” There are those who say “Why go out? To get annoyed?”
Sometimes I have also my days of “inxile.” I watch the city from my balcony and resign myself to having the image of the sea, the clouds, the people walking by the street; but I refuse to get involved. However, the aversion for the outside always fades and I go out once again with the solace of a wise song that says “This is what there is.”