So last night I did what I've wanted to do metaphorically in a literal way. I ran. And Ran. And kept right on running. It was pouring rain out. I went anyway. Lightning striking all over the place. Sun set well below the horizon. I kept running. Soaken wet, heart pounding, foot numbing I stopped and walked long enough to so I could feel my foot again and catch my breath, then I ran some more. And ran, and ran. I ran right past the road I was supposed to turn down and didn't realize it for a half mile. I turned around and made my way back, until I got to the road I take back to my apartment. After six miles, the sky chose then to close up and go calm. No more lightning, no more rain. Just a wet, tired, mind-numbed me. Removing my soaked through shoes and squeeging out my socks, I walked barefoot the rest of the way back to my apartment. I didn't dare try the stares, opting instead for the elevator, and two stories higher I trapsed through the hall, and wandered into my apartment. I stared into the mirror, amazed at how good I look when wet and exhausted, despite all the internal misery. But I think that's the point. Though I thought about the hell I'm going through... I just kept going until I could think of nothing but where my next steps were taking me. I think that was somewhere after mile four... That's a long way to go to put something out of my mind, which itself I suppose is symptomatic of who I am... a long way for relief that lasts only so briefly.

I cooked dinner in nothing by my boxers, had a couple drinks to celebrate my triumph, and went to sleep to wake up to a day with all the same troubles I had before, with the additional joy that comes from sore back muscles.