The past five days have been just about the worst of my life. I have been in pure emotional anguish. I’ve been making myself hurt. I’m still trying, but it stopped working. I woke up this morning feeling almost nothing. It was still there, but compared to what I’d been putting myself through the past few days, it felt like nothing. If I’m honest, and why wouldn’t I be, at this point? I felt similarly yesterday. I got off of work, with a plan, and I went for a run. My plan was stupid, and so was the run I ended up going on.

My plan was to go and see him. To get my passport as fast as humanly posisble, get on a plane to the UK, and eventually the Isle, and hike my way up and down the whole bloody thing until I found him. Sleep in bushes, eat convenience store bread, charge my phone at coffee shops, and keep it all trucking along until I either failed, and came home a loser, or succeeded, and finally did something worth writing about.

I’m honestly still thinking about doing that. I’m still going to do everything I can to prepare to do that. I’m going to buy some gear from the Army/Navy Surplus. I’m going to get my passport as fast as possible. I’m going to practice my stealth camping here in the great US of A. I’m going to spend a lot of time training to hike all bloody day.

The more I think about it, the more I’m coming around to thinking that that would not be the best thing for me to do for him, though.

I went for a run last night. I needed to get some demons out. I had originally only planned to go for an hour, which would’ve been a good distance. But I made it a half an hour from the house, and I still felt good, so I decided to keep going. I turned around about six and a half miles in, ready to do a half marathon. Pace was decent for never having trained distance running. A little over three hours in, about a half mile from finishing the half marathon, I couldn’t help myself any longer, and I pulled out my phone to check my messages.

I immediately stepped halfway off the trail, twisted my ankle, ate shit, and had to limp to the street and call my dad for a ride home.

He hadn’t even messaged me, of course.

I took a brief break and the sky finally fell. He blocked me, on presumably, everything.

So it goes.

Why is life so much less beautiful than I want it to be?