leaving is not difficult.

leaving ideas, dreams, people-- especially if there is something or someone to leave for, someplace to journey to.
the man leaves his wife for his mistress, the woman her old comfortable job for something new and more. there is that promise of excitement, of novelty, intrigue-- that tiny whisper that says you are not happy enough -- a different kind of greed.
two weeks, months, years, decades later you become nostalgic, or fight off the nostalgia self-assuredly-- citing the shiny new people, accomplishments, places and experiences as trophies. you did the right thing by giving up that mundane little place, relationship, that small town.
it took so little to be happy then, you muse, and there is a tickle in the back of your thoughts, like a small feather, and you wonder-- maybe I was happier then, in that small town
'all the world's a stage' but
maybe
if the script was never written
and the actors were all drunk before they could get into costume

I could be happy with just the stage alone.