You're Probably Here by Accident

So, for those not in the know, if anyone still bothers to check this, I am in Phoenix, Arizona, surrounded by sand, and days away from a seven day, solitary excursion into an area known as the Superstitions, where, according to my camping guide at a little shop I found, I have a decent chance of finding water, although we can't be sure.

I haven't written because I'd just talk about everything wrong right now, and I'm not quite ready to cross that last boundary between us. I like to pretend I still believe in privacy... Not so much my own, but hers. The short version though, which I feel I can reveal, is that I am away for a month, here, in the desert, and one week of that will be spent entirely on my own - save a few coyotes. This is time for me to take the steps I need to, and time for her.

There are good moments right now, but they're brief, and I frequently find myself dwelling on her, and us, which is exactly what she isn't doing, and what I need to stop letting happen. Also, Phoenix is hot, and the dumpsters all work as little ovens, roasting the trash from the complex I am staying in.

I'm very tired of hurting. And it doesn't make it any better to know it's up to me to stop it whenever I choose to do so. I don't want to give up, but I keep getting this worried feeling I'm the only one who hasn't. My chest is sucking inwards, pulling my chin down and bending my back so that I'm almost ready to implode against my black-hole heart as it desperately pulls in anything it can to fill the wound.

I like to tell myself that feeling is me being made whole again, but I forget to pretend sometimes, or maybe my imagination just isn't fast enough. So, instead, I remember it's pain.

I'd put a joke here, but looking at myself, I think this serves as funny enough.