…And the ones we let go.
Laying here at 4am, I realized something about me.
I am thinking of a pain, a pain I took from someone else and told him he didn’t have a right to it. I very selfishly made a shared pain my own, to no real end.
I took that pain, and I opened the bin of feeling and I shoved it down, stuffed it way down to the bottom.
I covered those feelings with life and escapism, alcohol and bad dreams.
I figured I could always outrun it without really trying.
Sometimes, sometimes it manifests as two and a half weeks driving around Ireland, solo, pretending I am escaping another, fresher pain. However, I know one is related to the other because I created it that way and never really denied it.
It’s running off to Iceland for two weeks…
…next up is Greenland.
And I get why.
Because when it’s cold, with a chill that sometimes remembers to cut through you, you are numb. You don’t have to feel. You can scream out over a frozen tundra and it won’t echo back. Frozen, blue and silent too.
You get used to it.
I did this once, with a different pain, to the mountains of Greece. Camping and adventuring. The problem, however, with mountains is…
…they echo back. They will tell your secrets. It’s as if your pain won’t let you escape.
You can’t escape it anyway.