Forty Three : Who Needs Heroin When The PCT Exists (Part 2)

I lay on the cot I’ve made myself behind the love seat on the floor of Jordans apartment, staring up at my phone trying not to think about how the screams of my body are getting louder and louder.
Suck it up, the man inside my head, the one that uses my voice, says.
I do.
I scroll through photos on Instagram until my fingers stop lazily scrolling on the start of the trail. My heart sinks five or six feet in defeat before climbing out of its grave and, standing tall and proud, says “not a defeat, a life altering learning experience.”
My neck itches and I scratch it. The breeze makes the room grow chill. I giggle at the irony. ” It’s so cold,” scratch scratch scratch, “just need to get back out to the PCT. God damn Mojave is calling to me ya know?!”
Like a comedic crackhead.
Fuck.
It’s only been four weeks but I feel so compelled. Everything I do from here on out, no matter how much I could try to deviate my course, feels like it’s just going to lead me back out into the great devouring wild.
The man that lives in my head, the one that uses my voice asks and I whisper the words as he does.
Do you remember the taste of it?

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