I don’t know how I’ll get there but I will.

Where though? Where do I want to go? To an endless summer of indulgence, clinking glass and skinny midriffs or do I long for stoic self reliance, cold water and lonely long distance runs. I want both in equal amounts. Both have an allure of romanticism. Both satisfy inner needs that are not being met.

The problem with craving destinations is that we fail to be with our lives in the present. I know this is escapism, the micro-glimpse into what could be.

Mostly in the darkness when I turn off the light I find myself fantasising about what could have been and the sense of loss is overwhelming. I cannot tell you the amount of times I have woken up telling myself that today is the day I will become what I dream about, my idealised self. I cannot tell you the amount of times I find myself doing exactly what I planned to never do again by lunchtime.

I have read everything I possibly can, cruelly egged on by stories of people who turned their lives around and became great or good at whatever it was they decided to do. The decision that changed everything, the insight that rearranged their entire cosmology. This hasn’t happened for me yet.

One thing I haven’t done is give up. I am not sure I can. Maybe I have learned one thousand ways not to do something and the next time I will change. Maybe I am a participant in the universe's sickest joke. These dreams persist because they are longing to be lived and I am the vessel for those dreams.

If I could only find a way to live them. I persist. I am 38.