Whenever I engage in running away fantasies, which I never do, I always say the things I should say in the here and now which would preclude the need for engaging in fancies of flight, which I never do I never never never do. Sometimes I forget that this is nothing more than empty space on a server among millions in the ether of no consequence and there are no rules against writing whatsoever I want. I am predisposed to expectations, I suppose. Bother.
But I cannot just run away, because, oh, the ache, the hurt and pain that is almost so pleasurable that it releases a runner's high level of endorphins just imagining the wrenching woe begones. Steady as the tide.
I swear, this minor serenity pledge has almost gotten to the point I'm believing in it. It's damn near almost got me afraid that I am changing into an entirely different person. How come so many of my favorite stories have the lead character fighting against the irrepressible march of his destiny? Is it because most of our destinies are so mundane? What if I am destined to be agreeable? How the hell will I ever run away then, but perhaps as a bus driver on the Green Tortoise?
Tomorrow I run off to the first poker match of the year, and it will be an escape, a lingering descent into vice and irresponsible decision making, and I will stumble into bed at some early morning hour and wonder how many furrows on my wife's lovely brow were lines dug by gnawing doubts about the terrible taste she has in men.
I can say anything I want here and I know that this isn't even remotely true.