ello, jello

*** wants to follow you on Strava.

And if it were three months ago, I would’ve accepted. But it’s April now, not January. Or December. A year ago I was reaching out desperately to any therapists in the area, trying to deal with being with her. Trying to deal with being the person I had shaped myself into to be with her. Trying to survive. And now I’m working on a puzzle in my living room. It’s on the coffee table I found at an abandoned restaurant two months ago. I’m fixing the jeans that I tore way back when and reading the book I saved the name of even longer ago. I’m walking – not to escape or deal – but to feel. Feel the sunshine on my skin, feel the desert air kiss my face, feel like I’m in the right place, finally. My mind isn’t fighting my body anymore, my body agrees with my mind and they both say let’s run. So I am. Strava saves the paths I take. And I’ve decided I don’t want *** to know that I ran from her, to know that the path I’m on isn’t toward her anymore. My path lies on the silvery hills on the land that I love most, deep in the heart of this golden west. I’m running for me now. I’m home.